


The Last Companion

by standbygo



Category: Firefly, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Case Fic, Crossover, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Slow Burn, discussion of noncon but doesn't actually happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: Thirty years after the Miranda Wars, there is peace, both on the Rim and the Core planets. There are a number of old social mores still in place, such as the Order of Companions, but there is a sense that even such respected practices are coming to an end…Sherlock is a Companion - the best Companion on Persephone. With a bit of detective work on the side, of course. Then he meets a man named John Watson, encounters a series of bizarre cases, and finds his world is getting turned upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta team of the Fanfic Writers' Retreat 2017! Shamelessmash, Stilltheaddict, Pipmer, MissDavis, May_Shepard, and Nautilicious, you are all so wonderful and helpful. Go read their fics, they are brilliant!
> 
> Translations and notes at the end of each chapter. New: if I've done this right, you should be able to hover over the Chinese text and see a translation (thanks to Besina for teaching me how!)
> 
> This is a WIP, strictly speaking, but I am finished the first draft and will post as I edit. UPDATE: This fic is now complete.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

**Prologue**

After the events on Miranda and the broadcast of the horrifying evidence of the Alliance’s role in the rise of the Reavers, the repulsed citizens of the Outer Rim planets began to rebel. The rebellion grew exponentially, leading to the Miranda Wars. Faced with the ire of a populace which had grown in numbers and firepower since the Unification War, the Alliance fell. A new government, referred to as the New Alliance, rose to take its place, promising a better synchronicity with the people it governed.

Thirty years after the Miranda Wars, there is peace, both on the Rim and the Core planets. There are a number of old social mores still in place, such as the Order of Companions, but there is a sense that even such respected practices are coming to an end…

 

**CHAPTER 1**

“Commissioner Yun, how lovely to see you again,” Sherlock said as the door slid open. “Come in. The water should be just about ready for tea.”

He stepped aside to let in the portly, elegantly dressed man. “It’s been far too long,” Yun said, as they kissed on both cheeks. “You’ve redecorated?”

“Very perceptive,” Sherlock said. “Please, sit. You’ve travelled far to see me.”

The room was rich with silks and leather, the air delicate with incense and tea. Sherlock sat, and carefully pulled his silk kimono sleeves back to pour the boiling water into the teapot. “Your work has kept you travelling, I see, Commissioner. You’ve been to Ariel and Meridian, just within the last three months?”

“Yes, exactly. I never understand how you know, but yes,” Yun said as he accepted his tea cup. “This smells – oh – it’s like an oolong but somehow…”

“It is an oolong,” Sherlock replied with a smile. “It’s real, not synthesized.”

“Truly?” the Commissioner said, staring at his cup in surprise.

“Mmm. One of my clients gave it to me. One of the Terraformed worlds on the rim has figured out how to grow it. They can only produce a small crop and the transport costs are _fēicháng ángguì_ ,  but it’s quite spoiled me for the real thing now.”

“And now you’re spoiling me.”

Sherlock looked at Yun over the rim of his teacup. “Of course,” he said, his voice pitching lower. “Only the best for you.”

Yun smiled back, slow; Sherlock could see him relaxing into his chair. “What made you want to redecorate now? It was quite beautiful before.”

Sherlock tossed his head indifferently. “Well, one gets bored with the same colours, the same furnishings. I’d change it every month if I could.”

“I’ve never seen a sofa like that.”

“Ah.” Sherlock set down his teacup with a click. “It isn’t a sofa – it’s called a divan.”

“A what?”

“Divan. It’s a piece based on a design from Earth-That-Was.” Sherlock’s lip curled, his eyes darkened. “Come sit here with me,” he murmured. “It’s terribly comfortable.”

Yun slowly, carefully placed his teacup back on the tray. He sat, close beside Sherlock, and Sherlock moved even closer.

“It’s beautiful,” Yun said, staring into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Only the best,” Sherlock said, and leaned in to press his lips to Yun’s.

**

_“I have just received a very important wave,” Mummy said._

_She was using her ‘this is quite important so pay attention’ voice; Sherlock stopped reading his tablet but didn’t raise his eyes._

_“Sherlock has been accepted into the Naditu Academy for Companions. I’m so proud of you!”_

_Sherlock’s head jerked up and around to her. “What?”_

_“The Academy for Companions - very prestigious. Siger, do you hear?”_

_“I heard,” Father said. He had not looked up from his newsvidder. “Congratulations, Sherlock.”_

_“I thought I would go to Myc’s school,” Sherlock said._

_“You and Myc are similar in many ways, but you have very different talents, and therefore different futures ahead of you,” Mummy said, with a soothing tone that made Sherlock’s teeth ache._

_“Companion’s a great thing to be,” Father said. He was staring into the fire now. “I remember when all the best parties had at least one or two of the most eminent Companions in attendance. It was embarrassing if there weren’t any there. Considered a great social failure. One would walk in the room, and everyone would just stop; stand up a bit straighter. Brought light into the room, they did.”_

_“And our Sherlock will be one of the great ones,” Mummy said._

_Sherlock shrugged and returned his attention back to his tablet._

**

Sherlock smoothed the lapels of his velvet jacket and picked off an invisible piece of dust as the bell rang. He smiled warmly as the door slid open.

“Professor Flynn - Maria. I am so pleased to meet you at last. The vidders do not do you justice – you are a stunning woman.”

The woman was elegant and poised but Sherlock could see the edge of nervousness around her, heard her tiny shudder of breath as he kissed her cheek.

“I’m grateful you’ve made time in your schedule for me,” she said, then faltered. “Ahm… I’ve not… how does…”

He placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her gently towards the tea table. “Come. Sit. We’ve enough time for tea before our hovercar arrives.”

“Hovercar?” Confusion pursed her brow. “I thought-”

Sherlock warmed the teapot, poured tea into elegant bone china cups. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise?”

Sherlock smiled to himself. Flynn had never visited a Companion before, and clearly thought that the encounter would be sex with no preamble. That kind of encounter was graceless, with no art. He would show her the art of a Companion, and why he was the best Companion on Persephone.

“The hovercar should be here in approximately twenty minutes. That should deliver us to the _Yúlè_ Theatre just in time for curtain. We have box seats, an excellent view of the stage.”

A small smile began to break across her face. “I haven’t been to the Yúlè in years. What are we seeing?”

“Madama Butterfly.”

He saw her soften, relax – perfect. “That’s my favourite opera.”

“I know.” He gazed at her over the rim of his cup as he sipped. “We will see this beautiful story, hear the glorious music, see the costumes. You will watch the stage, while I will watch you, watch the beauty unfold on your face. Then we will return here,” he allowed his voice to deepen, “and I will show you a different kind of beauty.”

Her teacup clicked abruptly against the saucer. Sherlock smiled into his cup.

**

_Sherlock scanned the rows of chattering children standing at the steps of the school, noting their various levels of nervousness and homesickness. At this point, he felt neither - just curious and slightly wary of all the new information. He created categories in his head and then grouped the children: which ones had received scholarships, which were bullies, which were likely to be bullied, which would be most likely to be sent home before the end of the first term. The ratio of girls to boys was three to one; interesting._

_Some of the children had already grouped together, made tiny, fresh friendships. No one approached Sherlock._

_There was a rustling and then a stillness as one of the teachers stepped forward, her dark eyes sweeping over the group. Her hair was curly, thick and long, with only a few strands of white, and her lips were full with a child-like smile._

_“Welcome to the Naditu Academy for Companions, children. I am Lǎoshī Inara Serra, the head teacher here. As you likely know, this is the largest school for Companions on Persephone, and the best in this star system. Be proud that you are here, and be proud of your profession that is to come.”_

_She paused, and Sherlock noted a glint in her eye. “I’m sure all of you know about the honour and dignity of the role of Companion. Many of you may have heard stories about famous Companions in the past. But what do you think being a Companion really means? Is it about the fame, being known of and whispered about at all the best parties? The beautiful clothes, money to buy whatever you wish?”_

_Sherlock noted a couple of the girls straining to hear every word, a slight smile on their faces, nearly nodding in eager agreement. The teacher seemed to notice them too, but did not allow her eye to rest upon them for long._

_“If that’s what you want, if that’s all you think a Companion is, then you are not a Companion, but a whore.”_

_A ripple of shock ran through the group at the epithet. Even some of the teachers looked a little uncomfortable._

_“A Companion is more than receiving money in exchange for sexual services. It is making the sexual act a holy rite. Both you and your client should learn from each other. It is helping your sisters and brothers in need. It is refusing to let sex be shrouded in shame, but having agency over your body._

_“Each of you has been chosen because you show promise. You have been brought here as your puberty is about to begin, but your learning will not simply be about matters of the body. We will train your minds and your souls as well. You will be expected to maintain high standards of educational achievement, but more than that; you will be held to the highest possible standards of ethical behaviour.  If you fail to achieve those standards, you will not just disappoint yourselves, but all your Guild sisters and brothers.”_

_She paused again, and gazed at the now-solemn group of students._

_“You begin today, this hour. Kāishǐ.”_

_She and the other teachers turned and walked into the building. The children followed in silence. Sherlock joined the group, his mind tumbling over Lǎoshī Inara’s words._

**

Sherlock pitched his voice low, dark and honeyed. “That’s it, you’re almost there, Sybil, aren’t you? You’re on the edge. Now. Give me your hands – is this all right? – above your head, that’s good. Hold onto the headboard, don’t let go. And tilt your legs back. Very good. Does that feel good? Yes? I can feel the tension in your muscles. Holding still, your body stretched out like this, it increases muscle tension. And it will intensify your pleasure when – yes, that’s it, yes, yes, good, Sybil, good, let go-”

**

_Sherlock knew something was wrong the moment the teachers entered the schoolroom. There was a tension in their bearing, etched into the straight lines of their mouths._

_“Everyone put your satchels on your desks, please. Immediately.”_

_There was a murmur of confusion as the students complied._

_“There has been a theft,” said Lǎoshī Sing. The whispers disappeared as if behind a closed door.  “Anya’s vidder has been taken from her room. We will search everyone’s satchel, and if the vidder is not found, we shall search your rooms. Theft of property is a serious matter; it contravenes our code of honour as Companions. When discovered, the thief will be sent home in disgrace.”_

_The teachers walked slowly up and down the aisles of the room, looking into each student’s satchel. When Sing pulled a vidder from Tjinn’s satchel, there was a collective intake of air._

_“Lǎoshī ,” Tjinn said, her eyes full of tears, her voice wobbling, “Lǎoshī, I-”_

_“Tjinn, I am disappointed,” Sing said, her voice swept clean of empathy. “Go and gather your-”_

_“Tjinn didn't take the vidder,” Sherlock burst out. “Marilana did.”_

_He was aware of every eye in the room turning to him, but he ignored them all and kept his gaze fixed firmly on Sing._

_Sing frowned. “Sherlock, that’s a very serious-”_

_“Anya would have used her vidder this morning, she always calls her mother before the morning meal. Then she has Pilate-Go class, then Classic Literature, then Core History, with no break between so she would not discover it missing until now. Tjinn has Sun Salutations at dawn, before Anya calls her mother, then Erhu practice, then she is on food preparation duty until lunch, and she was not late for any of those classes, so she had no opportunity. Moreover, she exhibited no signs of stress during the search, as a guilty party would, not until the vidder was found in her satchel just now. Marilana, however, has a spare period after Classic Literature, giving her plenty of opportunity to take the vidder from Anya’s room and plant it in Tjinn’s satchel. During the search Marilana did not show signs of stress, but rather delight, glee, smugness; that combined with the fact that she and her clique have been tormenting Tjinn for weeks now indicates that she planted the vidder to-”_

_Sherlock was interrupted by a shriek of rage from Marilana as she jumped at him, one hand a fist, the other a claw._

**

“It’s difficult for you, isn’t it, General? Making decisions all day, every day, without rest. Decisions that impact other people. Decisions that could cost men and women their lives. And they follow you. They trust you to make the right decisions. It’s an enormous responsibility, and it’s exhausting you. So you make one more decision – to come and see me. Yes?”

The General stared, nodding.

Sherlock leaned forward, and held the General’s gaze with a penetrating look. He was wearing a velvet and silk _chi gong_ suit, blue so dark it was almost black. He folded his hands on his knees; crisp, clear, perfectly symmetrical. “You did the right thing. For tonight then, no more decisions. I decide for you. All right?”

“Yes,” the General sighed, a great exhalation of air, relief pouring out of his lungs.

“Good. Finish your tea.”

The General threw back the final gulp from his cup.

“If you wish to stop, say _hóng_. Do you understand?”

“Yes. _Hóng_.”

“Stand up.”

The General stood, the lines in his face relaxing. Sherlock stayed seated. His head tilted to the side, considering.

“Take your clothes off.”

Hat. Jacket, rattling with medals. Braces. Shoes polished to glass. Trousers. Shirt. Vest. Socks. Pants. The General stood, naked, his body ageing but still muscular and powerful. His cock was already starting to plump up. A small smile was fluttering around his mouth.

“Lie down. Close your eyes.”

**

_Sherlock pushed a wave of nervousness down into his belly as he rang the bell to Inara’s quarters._

_“Come,” he heard._

_He entered into a room filled with rich colours and subtle light. Inara sat behind a chocolate coloured desk, ornate and yet functional._

_“Ah, Sherlock. Thank you for coming so quickly. Sit.”_

_He obeyed, and she came around the desk to sit beside him. He saw her glance briefly at his black eye, then settle into a direct gaze._

_“Marilana has been expelled from the school. Tell me - do you think she was expelled for her theft of the vidder, or for arranging for Tjinn to look like the thief, or for her attack on you?”_

_Sherlock blinked in surprise. It was not a question he had anticipated when he had been called to Inara’s quarters. In fact, he had wondered if he would be expelled himself. He considered._

_“Marilana initially stole the vidder not just to frame Tjinn, but to antagonize Anya; many students have witnessed Marilana teasing Anya for her homesickness. Also, she could not have framed Tjinn if she hadn’t taken the vidder in the first place. Therefore the greater crime was the first. But framing Tjinn could be considered the worse crime, as an innocent person could have been punished for a crime she did not commit. That would be a greater betrayal of the values of the school. I don’t know, Lǎoshī.”_

_Inara tilted her head. “And the attack on you does not enter into your calculations?”_

_“No, Lǎoshī.”_

_“But she hurt you.” Her soft hand touched his cheekbone, feather-light. “She bruised you. She has - temporarily, I hope - marred your beauty.”_

_Sherlock stared at her in astonishment._

_“Do you not consider yourself beautiful?”_

_“No, Lǎoshī. Quite the opposite. My eyes are an odd shape and colour, my neck too long, my hair unruly. I’m too thin. You are being kind, but I know this to be true.”_

_She cupped his cheek.  “You are beautiful, Sherlock, Àirén. Are you comparing yourself to others, such as Rudyard, or Elysia?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Beauty is a construct based on-”_

_“Shush. Construct, gāisǐ de.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock at the crudity from Inara’s mouth._

_“Their beauty will be gone by the time they are twenty-five or thirty. When you are thirty, you will be even more beautiful than you are now. And by forty, more still. You will grow into your beauty, and it will deepen. Now let me get something for that bruise before it grows.”_

_She moved gracefully to the corner of the room and returned with a ceramic bowl with a cloth draped over its edge. Sherlock watched her dumbly as her delicate hands soaked and squeezed out the cloth. It stung slightly as it touched his skin, then began to ebb away the hurt._

_Inara focused on the cloth, not looking directly at him. “Do you know the words I have heard describe you, Sherlock?”_

_“No, Lǎoshī.”_

_“Cold. Emotionless. And yet when you considered my question, you only thought of injustice done to others, and not the injury done to you. So I do not believe these descriptions. Also, aloof - do you feel a bit better now, értóng?”_

_“Yes, Lǎoshī.”_

_“No one helped you with your injury? No friend to fetch ice, or a cool cloth?’_

_He shook his head slightly._

_“Not aloof necessarily, but without friends. Hm. The other word I heard was ‘brilliant’, and that I will agree with. Your reasoning to pinpoint the true guilty party was built on solid logic, your conclusion reached within seconds. I have no doubt that with a thorough investigation, my colleagues could have discovered the truth, but you arrived at it much more efficiently. And you reached it by noticing details, observing behaviour. Yes?”_

_“Yes, Lǎoshī.”_

_“And the friendlessness – this is because they don’t like your observations about them?”_

_Sherlock was again shocked into silence. He nodded. Months of sidelong glances, whispered words, being ignored, ostracized – laid bare in a few words._

_Inara put the cloth back into the bowl and gazed at Sherlock. “Listen to me, little one. What we teach at the school, what most of your classmates will become, are good Companions. They will be beautiful, talented, graceful, desirable. But what makes a truly great Companion is the ability to look at a client, and know immediately what they need, what they want, and then provide that._

_“You have this ability, already. But it must be honed, magnified, made perfect. From this day forward, you will attend music and dance class with the others, but every other class will be supervised by me alone. This is a great privilege, Sherlock, and you will have to work, work ten times harder than the others. But when we are done, I believe you will be the greatest Companion of this age.”_

_Sherlock blinked, and could not form the syllables to express himself. He felt his world shift and open, and knew that nothing would be the same again._

_“We begin today. Companions begin to analyze their clients during the tea ceremony, a vital part of the encounter. Now – show me how you pour tea.”_

**

Sherlock and the Admiral finished their tea in silence. Neither of them had spoken a word since Sherlock opened the door. The Admiral kept his head down, as if he was carrying a giant weight on his thin shoulders.

Standing, Sherlock placed his cup on the tray and crossed to the Admiral. The Admiral did not resist or look up as Sherlock gently pulled the empty cup from his hands. Sherlock took the Admiral’s hand, still warm from the tea, and pulled him to his feet, guiding him to sit on the divan. Sherlock sat next to him; the Admiral stared at the floor.

After a long, long moment, Sherlock carefully pulled the Admiral’s head onto his shoulder.

After another long moment, the Admiral began to weep.

**

Sherlock let the door slide shut, and leaned against the door, letting all the tension out of his body with a gust of breath.

“Mrs. Hudson! Tea!” he shouted.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in from a side door which separated the sitting room from the rest of Sherlock’s living quarters. “The Admiral’s gone already? That wasn’t long.”

“Too long by half,” Sherlock muttered. “Earl Grey please, not that disgusting natural oolong please. And biscuits.”

A subtle whistle sounded and Sherlock sighed, “ _Lăo kòuménr._ " He pulled aside a tapestry to reveal a vidder system built into the wall, pressed a button and threw himself into a chair. He sighed again as Mycroft’s face appeared on the screen.

“ _Xiándì_ ," Mycroft said blandly.

“ _Rénxiōng_ ," Sherlock said with some acid.

“And how was your visit with the Admiral?”

“Oh, don’t try to impress me that you know my schedule.”

“Of course I know your schedule, but the question was rhetorical, I know how it went. Your collar is still wet.”

Sherlock groaned, letting his head thump back. “Mycroft, can’t I drop him? He’s getting incredibly boring.”

“He’s the top Admiral with the New Alliance and he’s suffering from severe depression. His visits to you are the only thing that keeps him functioning. You don’t want a man with bottled up emotions in charge of our military, do you?”

“I know, our sessions allow him to access his negative emotions and permits a release in a safe environment, blah blah blah. It’s still terribly boring.” Sherlock knew he wouldn’t drop the Admiral but this was a dance he and Mycroft danced frequently and often, and the steps were now performed by rote.

“I’m calling to tell you that Chancellor Tang has been transferred to the rebuild on Whitefall. He will be sending – oh, I see they’ve arrived.”

Mrs. Hudson brought in a large basket of flowers and chocolates. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, then grabbed a box of truffles. He crammed two of them in his mouth, just to see Mycroft’s mouth thin with disgust.

“This creates a space on your roster. If you could inform me of your choice by next week that would be… helpful.”

“I’ll look at the waiting list. Hopefully there’s someone-”

The vidder whistled again, and Sherlock’s eye flicked at the sight of the name of the incoming caller.

“Thank you brother, I’ll send the leftover chocs to you, shall I? Must go.”

“Sherlock, there’s still another-”

“Later, Mycroft.” Sherlock wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his silk robe. “It’s Lestrade. I have a case.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:  
> fēicháng ángguì = prohibitively expensive  
> Naditu = Babylonian aristocratic women who were Sumerian temple slaves  
> Yúlè = entertainment  
> Lǎoshī = teacher  
> Kāishǐ = begin  
> Hóng = red (the colour)  
> Àirén  = sweetheart  
> Gāisǐ de  = damn it  
> értóng = child  
> Lăo kòuménr = tight ass  
> Xiándì = my virtuous younger brother  
> Rénxiōng = my kind older brother  
> Tea ceremony link here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFWfJpgM8GU  
> Blue velvet chi gong suit: https://guide.alibaba.com/shop/free-shipping-tai-chi-clothing-lian-gongfu-gold-velvet-winter-tai-chi-martial-arts-clothing_5323724.html


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock Holmes is the best Companion on Persephone. Thanks to his innate abilities and his training as a Companion by the incomparable Inara Serra, he can instantly deduce not only what his clients want, but what they need. But it's not all tea and seduction - when Sherlock hears the siren call of a case, he must obey.

“No teeth?”

“No teeth.”

“Hmmm.”

Sherlock circled the table in the morgue. He had changed into what he called his ‘working clothes’: sturdy cotton and denim in greys and browns. They allowed him to move more freely while not drawing attention to himself.

“Were they removed pre- or post-mortem?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he heard Anderson shuffle papers. Such a simple question, any half-intelligent investigator should know the answer immediately - it was key to the case.

“Post.”

Sherlock hummed. “Which explains the difference in bruising around the face; they’re deeper purple in colour, as they were made after the blood had begun to stagnate. Any self defense wounds?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. Probably the murderer used an airborne anaesthetic or poison to subdue or kill the victim, which would explain the lack of toxins in the blood. The question is, who subdued him, and did the same person remove the teeth?”

“Of course that’s the question, that’s why the professionals are here,” Anderson sneered. Clearly he was trying to establish his position in the room, in his universe.

“You use that word so often, and yet you clearly don’t really know what it means,” Sherlock said, still focused on the body, trying to ignore the flood of information from the living people in the room. (Lestrade – _tired/five night shifts/marriage in trouble again/too much coffee/pressure to solve the case quickly_. Anderson – _agitated/jealous/chronic migraine/fighting with both his wife and his mistress/sour stomach from too much convenience food_.)

He shook his head slightly to dismiss the irrelevant data. “Lestrade, show me a map of where they’ve been found?”

Lestrade swiped a few times at his tablet and then held it out for Sherlock to see. “Five so far, all over Persephone City.”

“You’ve checked their dentist?”

Lestrade’s mouth twisted into an incomplete smile. “We’re not complete morons, you know. Of course. Different dentists.”

Sherlock swiped at the tablet again to see the pictures of the victims: a Shepherd, a pimp, an Alliance soldier, teenaged son of a wealthy financier (his uncle had been a client of Sherlock’s), and now, a nurse. Absolutely nothing in common, nothing to link them together.

He shoved the tablet back into Lestrade’s hands.

“Well?” Lestrade said. Sherlock could hear the hope in his voice, and was angry at himself for not being able to tell them anything definite… yet. He would do it, though. He always did.

“I need to make some inquiries,” he said, and swept out of the room.

**

Sherlock maintained a network of people in the streets of Persephone City, people which Mycroft sneeringly referred to as Sherlock’s Irregulars. They were infinitely useful, however, and could give him the edge of information that could solve a case, information which the police could not possibly get. All for the sake of a few credits passed between hands.

He took a hovertaxi to the rougher quarter of the City, and walked to the Eavesdown Docks. Two of the bodies had been dumped in the Docks area; if Sherlock could find Wiggins or Toby, they may know something about the crime.

He found Wiggins as he was leaving a bar off Sunshine Way, the grubby street whose name was in sharp contrast to the dark and dirty location. Even the painted sun on the sign was filthy.

“Wiggins, I need to talk. Have you heard anything about-”

“Not really a good time, right now, Holmes _Xiānshēng_ ,” Wiggins said. His eyes were darting around, his whole body dancing with agitation.

“Just a few minutes, there’s been some murders and I need to know if-”

“Later, Holmes _Xiānshēng_ , all right?”

“Well, do you know where Toby is?”

“I haven’t seen him for-”

Wiggins stopped short, and Sherlock could see his blood pressure rising. “ _Wŏ zŏu le_ ,” Wiggins mumbled, and ran.

Sherlock growled with frustration. Wiggins was usually his best source of information; he had moderately good observational skills which almost made up for his stunning stupidity.

“ _Cào_ ,” he muttered. He turned to go, and found himself face to face with two uncomfortably burly men.

“Friend of Wiggins, are you?”

“Not as such.” Wonderful – the men were collectors. Wiggins had gotten himself into financial trouble again. At the very least, this meant that Wiggins would go to ground for a long time. But Sherlock noted the grim looks on the men’s faces, and realized he had a far more immediate and personal concern at the moment.

“Let’s have a chat,” one of the men said, and Sherlock found himself propelled into a darker corner of the alley.

He faced the two men and reviewed his situation. One man was tall and solidly built, tattoos across his face and neck. The other man was Sherlock’s height, had a long scar across his cheek, and visible outlines of two or three weapons on his person – a dagger, a cosh, and a studded bracer on his right wrist. Making up for his lack of brawn with weapons. On the whole, not a good combination – but Sherlock had an ace or two up his own sleeve.

“How much does he owe you?” he said. He was careful to keep his voice calm, his demeanour nonchalant. These people thrived on fear, on the draining weakness of it. He would not allow them to have his fear.

“Ten thousand credits.”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “Ridiculous. And how much of that is your collection fee?”

“That’s my ruttin’ business to know, not yours. You going to help your _péngyǒu_ out?”

“Nonsense. It’s not as though I carry that amount of money on me. Moreover, I am not responsible for Wiggins’ debts.”

“Well, see, here’s the thing. I recognize you. Seen you on the newsvidders. You’re famous, right? An actor or somethin’?”

Sherlock groaned. A mere actor – these people were even bigger morons than he thought.

“An’ famous people got money. So you’re going to pay up for your _péngyǒu_ , aintcha?”

Sherlock thought quickly. “I can give you five hundred now, and I’ll talk it over with Wiggins, make sure you get the balance. All right?” He pulled out his billfold, flashing credits at them.

He saw a glint of greed in the tattooed one’s eyes, and knew he had won the advantage. The tall man stepped forward, his arm extended towards the money.

Sherlock threw the billfold to one side. As the brute’s eyes instinctively followed it, Sherlock gripped his hands together and clubbed him in the neck. The big man went down with a shout.

“ _Pìyǎn_ ,” the other screamed, and jumped at Sherlock. Sherlock dodged out of the way, but grunted with surprise when he felt a small explosion of pain in his lower ribs. The man had pulled out his cosh quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. Sherlock stumbled, his nerves numbed by the blow, and fell hard on the filthy ground. The man rushed him and Sherlock kicked out, aiming for the knee but landing on the meat of the thigh instead, causing the man to stumble but not fall. It still allowed enough time for Sherlock to stagger to his feet, but he could see out of the corner of his eye the big man shaking his head and starting to stand. He had to take down the little one before the big one got up.

He raised his fists. He had a longer reach, even though they were the same height, but the other man outweighed him by at least fifteen kilos. There was the cosh to look out for as well. He circled, looking for an opening, while trying to get his back to the alley entrance; he could land a few solid punches and then make his escape. He darted in and connected a good right hook into the man’s solar plexus, and darted back – straight into a wall of muscle and bone.

“You’re faster than you look,” Sherlock said to the big man, as he felt his arms being pinned behind his back.

“And you,” said the scarred man, “are not going to look so pretty tomorrow.” He pulled out his dagger: short, sharp, glinting in the dim light of the alley.

Sherlock felt a wave of panic. These men were stupid, and brutal, and had complete advantage over him. They might even kill him. He could die here, be found in the morning, and his murder could be solved even by Anderson.

“ _Wèi_ ,” said a different voice behind them.

“ _Zǒu kāi_ , little man,” hissed the man with the scar.

“Well, see now, I can’t really. Could never walk away from an unfair fight. Two on one, that ain’t fair now, is it?”

Sherlock twisted his head around and saw a small, compact blond man step up to the right of the man holding him.

“See, two of you, one of him. Ain’t even odds, is it? But now,” and the blond man’s left leg shot out and kicked at the knee of the big man, who howled as he went down, “now it’s fair.”

Sherlock took advantage of his captor’s fall, twisting out of his arms and using his elbow to strike at the back of the man’s head. The man went down and did not move.

“ _Wáng bā_!”  screamed the other man, and ran toward them, knife raised.

Before Sherlock could take a breath, the blond man had a gun out and raised it up; the scarred man had to skid to a stop to prevent running into it. The tip of the barrel brushed against the man’s forehead.

“Think real hard, _péngyǒu_. I know that might be a challenge, but give it a try.”

His voice had been casual, almost friendly before; disarming. But now, abruptly, it was cold and devoid of empathy. The gun wasn’t even pointed at him but Sherlock felt a rill of fear run down his neck. He watched in fascination as a similar shock passed through his attacker.

“I heard you, earlier. The man’s right, he ain’t responsible for another man’s debts. So _Zǒu kāi_. Now.”

Sherlock’s attacker hesitated, just for a split second. In that brief second, the blond man cocked his gun, the sound of it shockingly hard and loud in the alley. In the next second, the scarred man was off and running, the sound of his feet scrabbling getting fainter and fainter.

The blond man watched him go, then put the safety back on the gun. “You all right, _Xiānshēng_?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sherlock. “They didn’t hurt me.”

“Not much,” said the man. “I heard the sucker-punch before, that’s why I came over. Cosh like that don’t tickle. This ain’t a good neighbourhood, you shouldn’t be here.”

Sherlock’s pride swelled into irritation. “What do you mean, I shouldn’t be here? I have business in the area.”

“Rich fella like you? What the hell for?”

“None of your – what makes you think I’m rich?” Sherlock sighed. “Let me guess, you’ve seen me on the newsvidder as well, have you?”

“Nope.” The blond man gestured at Sherlock. “Your clothes.”

Sherlock looked down at himself and cursed. In an instant he saw his mistake – his clothes were rougher than his usual silk gi or kurta, but still obviously new, clean and expensive, compared to the blond man’s lived-in, broken-down cottons and denim. He growled with irritation.

“Aw, don’t take offense. Hey, you’d better get your wallet and get out of here. Might be hard to find a hovertaxi in this area but I can help you-”

“I’m not done here yet,” Sherlock snapped. He strode across the alley and snatched up his billfold. “I’ve a murder to solve.”

“Really?” The man looked over at the thug with interest, still motionless on the ground. “They kill someone?”

“Perhaps, but that’s not my concern at the moment.” Sherlock stopped and looked over at the man, who was putting his gun away into its hip holster. Wiggins would be impossible to find after this, and useless to Sherlock, and Sherlock still needed information. Perhaps this man, who was clearly acquainted with the area and with the kind of people that frequented it, could tell him something. He extended his hand, reframing his face into a more friendly look. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock was prepared for the shock of recognition that usually happened when he introduced himself – ‘ _Sherlock Holmes? The most famous Companion on Persephone_?’ –  but the man didn’t blink, and merely returned the handshake with a jovial smile. His hands were small but strong, and weathered with hard work. “John Watson.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Watson.”

“Oh, I ain’t responding to Mr. Watson. Drawing a gun on someone’s behalf means first names. I’m John to you.”

“All right. John. I’m investigating five murders, two of which were discovered in the Docks area.”

“Investigatin’? You a copper, or New Alliance?”

“Neither, I’m a consultant. Did you hear about the murders?”

John shrugged. “Murder ain’t infrequent here. Mind being more specific?”

“The victims had had all their teeth removed.”

Sherlock was amazed to see the man who had just faced down two brutal thugs twice his size, shudder.

“Ugh. Teeth. Somethin’ about that just gives me the willies.”

“You don’t like teeth?” Sherlock said disbelievingly.

“Naw, I like teeth. Help me enjoy my food. I like ‘em when they’re where they’re supposed to be, in the shape and colour they’re supposed to be.” John ambled towards the street, still talking, and Sherlock followed. “See, when I was a kid, my sister had to have a bunch of fillings and she had to have the gold ones, and she kept chasing after me to show me her mouth. Scarred me for life.”

Sherlock snorted. The man was a liar too. “How old is your sister, ninety? They don’t do gold any more, not for years.”

“They do gold if you’re allergic to the syntho stuff. They did a test on her first and she swelled up like a – what’s the matter?”

Sherlock closed his jaw with a snap, and shook himself. “Natural oolong,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he said as he grabbed John’s sleeve, and they ran out of the alley.

**

“You work at the Poli-Station?” John said as they moved quickly through the throng of people in the lobby of the station.

“No, I told you, I’m a consultant. But I need to see their records of the victims.”

“Oh. They let you have an office here?”

“Sort of.”

They arrived at Lestrade’s office door, and Sherlock searched his pockets for his lock picking kit. John looked at the name plate.

“G. Lestrade – thought you said your name was Holmes.”

“I did, and it is.”

“So how can this be… oh, _wǒ kào_ ,” John said as Sherlock knelt to pick the lock. Sherlock focused on the lock as John blocked Sherlock from view with his body, keeping watch down the hall. “ _Wǒ de tiān a_ , hurry.”

“Got it,” Sherlock muttered, and the lock gave way. They slipped in quickly, and John closed the door and leaned against it.

“This was not how I was anticipatin’ my evening to go,” John said. “I figured, drink or two, find a cuddle if I was lucky. I see one fella getting the _shǐ dàn_ beat out of him, I said to myself, ‘Well, a good fight would go down well too,’ and not one hour later I find myself breaking into the Poli-Station lookin’ for lost teeth.”

Sherlock sat down at Lestrade’s screen, grunting slightly as his bruised side welled up in pain at the movement. “We’re not after the teeth. And I was not getting the _shǐ dàn_ beaten out of me.”

“Well, you were about to.”

“One punch he got in, that was all.”

“Uh huh. So what are you lookin’ for, and how long will it take?”

“You on a schedule?”

“Naw, just want to know how long to be nervous for.”

“Not long. Fortunately it’s not hard to guess Lestrade’s code – ah! Got it. Now tell me more about your sister’s allergy. How did they test for it?”

“Um. Long time ago, let me think. I think they painted a little bit on a back tooth and waited. Didn’t take long ‘til she swelled up.”

“And did the dentist do the test?”

“No, the-”

“…Hygienist,” they said together, and grinned.

“Look,” Sherlock said as John came around to his side of the desk. “We were looking at the dentist as a common factor, but they were all different. But hygienists work in multiple offices, all over Persephone City.” He tapped the screen a few times. “See, there’s a list of the hygienists at the first victim’s dentist, and,” he opened another window, “the second, and…”

“…and we just find the one name in common.” John grinned at him. “That’s ruttin’ brilliant, that is.”

“Would you mind repeating that a little louder for Detective Lestrade?” Sherlock said.

Sherlock wasn’t sure which he enjoyed more: the blood draining out of John’s face at the sight of the officer at the door, or Lestrade burying his face in his hands and saying, “ _Wǒ de tiān a_ , Sherlock, stop breaking into my office, please? Why do you think I keep changing the locks?”

“I thought it was to provide me with new challenges; I certainly don’t get challenged by the cases you bring me,” Sherlock said. “The common factor is the hygienist, not the dentist. The victims were all allergic to syntho-fillings and had the old-fashioned gold instead. Gold has increased in value since the supply on Earth-That-Was was exhausted, and a single filling would have a street value of about fifteen credits – nothing to sneeze at. The hygienist would supply the names and addresses to a gold-seller, or murdered the victims themselves – that’s probably it, they stole anaesthetic from the dentist’s supplies, suffocated them while they were unconscious and removed the teeth post-mortem. Then extract the gold, sell it, and keep the profits.” He stabbed his finger at the screen. “There. That’s the common name, Meisha Crowley. Bring him in.”

“Amazin’,” John said.

“Ludicrous,” Anderson snorted from the doorway.

“Oh God,” Sherlock groaned. “Do explain why it’s ludicrous, Detective Anderson.”

“There’s no way someone would go through all that trouble for the sake of a few credits,” Anderson said, stepping into the room. “It’s not worth it.”

“You’d be amazed what some people will do for money,” Sherlock said, standing up to go.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Anderson sneered.

Everyone in the room froze.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock said softly.

“Shut it, Anderson,” Lestrade growled.

“Nobody talks about it, but we’re all thinking it,” Anderson continued relentlessly. “You come in here to play at coppers, but we all know how you get your money, _biǎozi_.  Our resident consultant _whore_.”

The last word fell like iron in the room. Sherlock had opened his mouth to retort, when John stepped forward into Anderson’s personal space. Despite the height difference, John radiated an aura of menace that made Anderson flinch.

“Seems to me that you’re bein’ awful rude to a fella who just solved a murder for you,” John said, his voice turning iron to ice. “Seems to me like you need to start bein’ a little nicer, or you might find yourself in need of one of these dentists.”

Sherlock tried to speak but suddenly couldn’t find his breath. He knew he couldn’t laugh but oh, he wanted to. “John, he’s a police officer.”

John studied Anderson up and down, his face remorseless and cold. “Is he now,” he said, and the pitiless tone of his voice made Anderson blanch and step back.

“Come on John,” Sherlock said. His voice was back, and he knew he had to get himself and John out of the room before he began laughing. Before he stepped out of the room, however, he regained his composure and turned back.

“And Anderson,” he said, his chin high, his spine straightened with pride, “I am not a whore. I am a Companion. There’s a difference that you’ll never understand.”

He floated out of the building on the wave of his pride – at his comeback, at solving the case, at his own brilliance – but when he and John were on the street again he felt suddenly a bit unsure, and didn’t know why. John seemed to be looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

“So…” John said. “A Companion, huh?”

“Yes.”

“With some detective work on the side.”

“Well, yes.”

“Not an actor.”

Sherlock huffed. “No.”

John shuffled his feet. “Tellin’ the truth, I’m relieved you’re not an actor. From what I understand, actors get themselves into all kinds of trouble.”

John looked up and grinned, and Sherlock found himself grinning back. John extended his hand, and Sherlock took it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, Detective-Companion. I had more fun tonight than should be allowed.”

Then John walked away and disappeared into the crowds of people starting their day.

**

“Good heavens, Sherlock! Whatever happened to you?” Mrs. Hudson cried.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said as he slid out of his clothes and into a robe, sighing as the silk caressed the bruise on his side.

“Your clothes are filthy! Did you roll around in an alleyway somewhere?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Sherlock said. His mouth quirked up a bit at the memory of the fight in the alley, at a short stocky man facing down a man twice his size. He sat down at his desk and pulled a square piece of paper from a drawer. “Don’t wash it,” he said, remembering John’s words about his clothes betraying his wealth, and John’s own worn but neat clothes.

“What?” Mrs. Hudson sounded positively scandalized.

“Don’t wash the clothes. They have to look… lived in.”

“But do they have to look as though they’ve been through the Miranda Wars?”

Sherlock smiled down at the paper as he folded it. The case began to melt away from him as his fingers deftly transformed the paper into the shape of a tiny giraffe. He held it up to the window as the morning light streamed in.

“Yes, actually,” he said. “They do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes  
> Xiānshēng = Mister  
> Wŏ zŏu le = I’m off  
> Cào = fuck  
> Péngyǒu = friend  
> Pìyǎn = asshole  
> Wèi = hey, hey you  
> Zǒu kāi = go away  
> Wáng bā = son of a bitch  
> Wǒ kào = well fuck me  
> wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God (literally "Oh my sky")  
> Biǎozi = whore  
> Shǐ dàn = shit, a turd  
> Gi: http://www.martialartsupplies.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/multi5.jpg  
> Kurta: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fz0_7y7hT-U/T9w8umo7gWI/AAAAAAAAA4I/TW74M73DN2E/s1600/Mens-Designer-Kurta-Pajama.jpg  
> Origami giraffe: http://www.origamidauria.it/site2016/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/Giraffa.pdf


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock gets a new case, and brings in an expert - aka John Watson. Blue becomes green, John's afraid to sit down, Sherlock pretends to not know what to do, and they both learn something about each other.

“Check.”

Sherlock leaned back against the divan as his client studied the board. The room was warm and almost stuffy, but this was of course deliberate. He stretched his arms up, letting his back arch and the muscles in his bare chest ripple, and noted with satisfaction as his client’s eyes flickered away from the board.

“Oh _Dàifū_ ,” he said, pitching his voice low. Again, the flick of an eye to him, and back to the board. “I believe at this point there are only three possible moves you could make. One will result in a checkmate for me in four moves, one in only two moves – and one would save your king and possibly win the game in time. But if you lose, you’ll have to take off your last article of clothing, and if I lose, I’ll have to remove mine. And then we’d have to decide upon penalties, won’t we?”

A light flashed at Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock glanced, and knew it was Lestrade with another case. Sherlock grinned as he looked back, and saw that his opponent was sitting back with a smug look. He looked down at the board.

“Oh, well done, _Dàifū_ ,” he murmured.

**

The tells on Lestrade’s face and in the tense lines of his body were obvious: this was a big case, and Lestrade was getting pressure from above to solve it, and solve it fast.

“What’s the value of the amniculusite that was stolen?” Sherlock said, as he looked over the cargo hovertruck lying on its side. The security guard was sitting on the ground, being examined by the medics. Sherlock could see from a distance that the man was shaking his head, responding slowly – clearly concussed, and presently of no use as a witness.

“Over two million credits,” Lestrade said. He wiped his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end for a moment. “This stuff’s rare, you know. It’s only produced on-”

“Regina, in the Georgia system, I know.” Sherlock grinned. “I need to make a call.”

**

The screen shuddered and winked into life, revealing John Watson, dishevelled and bleary, rubbing his hand over his face. “Who the-”

“I need to know about the amniculusite industry on Regina.”

John squinted into the vidder. “Is that – _wǒ kào_ , Sherlock Holmes, innit? How the hell did you-”

“I have a case, and I need your help. I’ll be by in a hovercar in fifteen minutes.”

John blinked a few times, then sighed. “Bring coffee.” He turned away from the screen, scratching, and broke the connection.

**

As John stepped into the hovercar, Sherlock noted that John had showered briefly, but that the water had been cold, either for economy or to expedite his waking up.

“There’s been a theft of amniculusite and-”

John held up an imperious hand. “Coffee.”

Sherlock handed over a large traveljar of coffee, and watched impatiently as John took a sip to test the temperature, then one large rather desperate gulp.

“Good coffee,” he said.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “You can’t be that tired, you slept for five hours. Now, there’s been a theft-”

“Nope, I go first. I didn’t give you my wave number. How’d you find me?”

Sherlock sighed pointedly. “The other night you said you were going out for a drink. Most people go for a drink in their own locale, so you live in the Eavesdown Docks area. I did a search for all the John Watsons in Persephone City, then eliminated those without the 33 area code for Eavesdown. That narrowed the search down to four John Watsons, so I called each of them until I got you. JHWATSO33-1895. What does the H stand for?”

“So I have three other John Watsons in my neighbourhood who might be pissed at me for having a madman wake them up with a wave?”

“Only two. You were third on the list. The theft?”

John blinked, then drank more coffee. “All right. You go.”

“Finally. There’s been a theft of two million credits’ worth of amniculusite. The security driver was caught by surprise and _jí zhòng_ ; he has a concussion and is presently not a reliable witness. I thought it might be helpful to have someone who has an understanding of amniculusite. There’s certainly none amongst the _shǎguā_ on the force. It’s a rare material, only produced on Regina. You were raised on Regina. What does the H stand for?”

John stared, then held one finger aloft as he gulped coffee. He winced a little at the heat.

“How did you know I was from Regina?”

“Your accent – the elongated and atonal pronunciation of your As was the giveaway. Your father was a miner of amniculusite, possibly even a foreman, so you would likely have the specific knowledge I need. What does the H stand for?”

“It stands for ‘How the hell did you know Da was a miner’?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mining is by far the main industry on Regina. You mentioned your sister’s dental work, and your teeth are in good condition as well-”

“ _Xièxiè_.”

“-You’re welcome – so your family was able to afford medical care. Also you have scarring on your hands that comes from rough mining work, and the blue tone of it indicates you worked with amniculusite, likely through your teenage years given how much the scars have faded.”

John was still looking a little dazed. “If you know all that – if you can figure out all that – what can I _possibly_ help you with?”

“I’ve only ever seen amniculusite in museums. How heavy would two million worth be? Could one person act alone, or would he need several people? Would he need equipment? Who would be a potential buyer? How would-”

John held up his finger again, and drained the traveljar. Sherlock tried to funnel all his impatience into his bouncing left leg.

“Good coffee,” John said at last. “In answer to your questions: about fifty kilos, yes but with difficulty, no, no idea. Where we going?”

Sherlock grinned. “Crime scene,” he said.

**

There was an extra layer of chaos at the crime scene when they arrived. When Sherlock had left, most of the police had been drifting around the overturned hovercar, but now they were huddled into two groups. The smaller group was still surrounding the security guard, but Sherlock could see one unfamiliar person in the middle of the other group, his head bowed.

Anderson strode up to him and John as they stepped out of the hovercar. “You can go home. We’ve got him,” he said, pride puffing out his thin chest. “He didn’t go far, he was in the alley.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock said. “Who would be so stupid to not get away quickly?”

He looked at John, who shrugged. “Fifty kilos,” he said, half smiling.

Sherlock huffed and forced his way through the crowd of officers, dimly aware of John following in his wake. Soon he was face to face with the accused thief, and lifted the man’s head to study him. Thinning hair, a weak chin, the yellowed eyes of a _yǒng yuǎn_ addict, narrow shoulders still trembling from the effort of carrying the amniculusite, and a vacant, dazed look to him.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock breathed. “You really are a _bàn ge nǎozi_.”

“It was heavy,” the man whined.

“All right, that’s enough,” Lestrade said. “Zip him up, let’s get him processed.”

“But it’s ridiculous, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “The thief must have had some plan to hijack the hovertruck. That takes a certain degree of intelligence, but this man-”

“We caught him red-handed,” Anderson said, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “That’s sufficient to indict him.”

“Hey,” said John.

“Sometimes it is that simple. Blind luck,” Lestrade said. His voice was maddeningly patient; it made Sherlock’s skin crawl. “Not all the cases are as complex as you want them to be.”

“But it can’t be this simple. He must have had an accomplice,” Sherlock said.

“Excuse me?” John said. He was kneeling beside the open bag of amniculusite, looking around at the crowd.

“Oh my God,” Anderson said, smirking. “You’re actually angry about this. You’re in denial that we caught someone without your help. We caught him while you were off gadding about, and you’re pissed.”

“I was not gadding about, I was consulting an expert. And I don’t deny that this idiot is the thief, I’m saying that he’s stupid enough that he must have needed help to pull this off.”

“I’m not stupid,” said the thief. “I finished school and everythin’. It was just too heavy.”

“Oh shut up,” snapped Sherlock. “Lestrade, I know your people usually can’t find their own shoes once they’re tied on, but it absolutely must be-”

“ _Wei_!”  John said loudly.

John’s voice cut sharply through the rabble of the crowd, and all faces turned to him in the sudden silence.

“Thank you.” He held up one of the stones. “Just thinkin’ that you folks’d want to know that these are fake.”

A moment of stunned silence, cut by the thief’s shriek, “ _Zĕnme huí shì?!”_

“Who the _dìyù_ are you?” Anderson said.

Sherlock recovered in time to say, “John Watson. The expert I consulted. Remember? While I was ‘gadding about’?”

“I been handling amniculusite most of my childhood, on Regina,” John said. He turned and focused on Sherlock, ignoring the gaping mouths of the officers. “Amniculusite is blue, generally, but when you drag it on somethin’, it actually leaves traces of green.” He scraped the amniculusite along the pavement, leaving a faint blue tinge behind. “These are likely stultorumite with a good coat of paint. Actually, stultorumite’s a heap heavier than amniculusite, so it’s no wonder he couldn’t carry it far.”

“How do you know about the green trace?” Lestrade said.

“Got walloped by my Da for drawing on my wall with it when I was three.” John grinned at Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned back.

**

“This is _shǎqì_ , Sherlock. I’m fine.”

“Best be safe.”

“You’re the last one to talk. Runnin’ after that fella without Lestrade and them.”

“You ran after me. You took him down.”

“Me doin’ somethin’ stupid does not mean that you ain’t also stupid.”

Sherlock opened the door to his flat and ushered John into the sitting room, lighting a lamp before ducking through the curtain that led to the kitchen. He rustled around in the cupboards until he found the medi-kit. He always kept it on hand ever since a client broke a cup and promptly stepped on it barefoot.  He’d had to replace the rug.

“Scrape like that could get infected,” he said as he re-entered the sitting room. He stopped short at the sight of John standing, frozen, in the centre of the room. “What’s wrong?”

John’s eyes roved over the silken cushions on the elaborate divan, the velvet lined walls. “I – I dunno where to sit down.”

“For heaven’s sake, just sit on the divan. The sofa.” He pointed.

“Might get it dirty.”

“ _Wǒ de tiān a_ , just sit down.”

John sat on the very edge of the seat, looking uncomfortable and uneasy. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled one of the overstuffed chairs opposite him. “Let me see.”

John pulled back the wadded up handkerchief he’d been pressing over his forearm. “See, what’d I tell you. Fine.”

“Should clean it out at least.” Sherlock flipped open the medi-kit and stared at the contents. “Now… um…”

John’s brows knotted at the sight of Sherlock’s perplexed expression. “ _Ai_ ,” he sighed. “Get the stero-spray – no, not that one, the blue can – and spray it over the wound, right out to the edges. Then get the aero-bandage and spray a thin layer – shouldn’t need any steri-strips but-”

John looked up at Sherlock, and frowned at Sherlock’s smirk. “ _Liúmáng_ , you knew already what to do didn’t you?”

“Yup,” Sherlock said, popping the P with delight. “You were a medic.”

“You pretended to not know how to use your own ruttin’ medi-kit so you could prove somethin’ about me.” John glared at Sherlock, then broke into a rueful laugh. “You are the most irritatin’ genius I’ve ever met.”

“You have much experience with geniuses?”

“Not really.”

“Well then.” Sherlock began to clean the wound, quickly and efficiently. “You were a medic in the New Alliance Force?”

“Yup.” John popped the P as he grinned, then winced as the astringent worked on his broken skin. “After Da died, weren’t no money at home. I was old enough and it seemed like the best thing. Happened that they needed medics at the time, so I learned how to march and patch folks up at the same time.”

“You served for a long time.”

“Long enough to call it a career. Long enough to get a pension when I got shot.”

“Shoulder?”

“Got it in one. Still a little stiff when it rains.”

“Left side?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess.”

“Yeah you do. You didn’t know for sure that fella Langstaff was going to be at the warehouse.”

“Langstaff’s an idiot for not leaving Persephone immediately, he got caught, and he’s boring now. What did you do after you left the NAF?”

John hesitated. “Just a thin layer of the bandage, remember.”

“I know. What did you do?”

“You ain’t going to leave this alone are you?”

“No.”

“Langstaff’s more interesting, really… All right. I went home to get well enough to get by, but I knew I’d never be fit enough for the Force again. Tried working the mines again but I got restless. Living at home was… well. I got restless. Joined up with some freighter that was doing a pick up on Regina and they needed someone on crew. Flew with them for a while. The captain was this crazy old fella, limped worse’n me. Always wore this hat would have looked stupid on anyone else, but no one had the nerve to make fun of him. Old hat, maybe orange or yellow once but too dirty and moth eaten to tell. He was bat-shit crazy but he kept us flyin’.” John nodded at the medi-kit, lying open and forgotten on Sherlock’s lap. “Better wash your hands.”

Sherlock blinked. “Right,” he said. He crossed through to the kitchen, leaving the medi-kit out on the counter, and slowly washed his hands. “Where did you go?” he called.

“Lord, where didn’t we go,” John said. The volume of his voice changed, and Sherlock could tell he was wandering around the sitting room. “Kalidasa, Huang Long, Zhu Que… We’d hear about a job, we’d go. Shipping, security, sometimes – well. All sorts of jobs. You play chess?”

Sherlock returned to the sitting room, drying his hands. “What?”

John pointed to a jade and crystal chess set.

“Yes, but I have a more practical set. That one is more for decoration. Too heavy. It was a gift from a client. Do you play?”

“We once had a passenger who taught me. Never let me win though.”

“Want to play?”

“Would you let me win?”

“Probably not.”

John half smiled, a twist of his lips. “It’s your turn anyways.”

“For what?”

“You heard my life story. Hell, you probably figured it out by the way I combed my hair this morning. I want to hear ‘bout your story now.”

“Even more boring than Langstaff’s. I went to school when I was twelve, graduated when I was eighteen, been working ever since.”

“Where were you born?”

“Here. In Persephone City.”

“Never been anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Not even – I’da thought you’d been to Ariel?”

“I’ve always had enough clients here. There’s not many Companions left anymore. You’ve been to Ariel?”

“Oh yeah, few times. Beautiful city; maybe a bit bigger than Persephone. Lots of tall buildings of glass and platinum, reaching up, high class hotels and restaurants – all sorts of places I wasn’t allowed. Your turn now. How’d you get into the police business?”

Sherlock sat at his desk, absently taking a piece of origami paper from the pile and starting his folds. “I had a client who was the Chief. We were out at an event one night when he got a call about a high profile murder. He asked me to come along so we didn’t have to end our evening, and I saw something the investigators hadn’t and solved it. Lestrade was the head detective that night, and he still calls me when he’s over his head, which is always.”

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, at the paper dog his hands had created while he was talking. “Origami. It’s a very old art, from Earth-that-was. I learned it at the Academy. I do it after a case; it helps me order my mind.”

John picked up the tiny paper dog and considered it. “Looks a bit like Langstaff, don’t you think?”

“Just as flat as Langstaff was after you took him down.”

John laughed, a bright giggle that made Sherlock chuckle in response.

“I want to hear about more about your work on the freighter,” Sherlock said as their laughter died down. “Your captain sounds fascinating – what was his name?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes  
> Dàifū = high-ranking official  
> Wǒ kào = well fuck me  
> Jí zhòng = hit, struck  
> Shǎguā = fools  
> Xièxiè = thank you  
> Bàn ge nǎozi = half wit  
> Yǒng yuǎn = forever (made up drug name!)  
> Zĕnme huí shì = What the fuck  
> Dìyù = hell  
> Shǎqì = stupid, ridiculous  
> Wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God  
> Liúmáng = punk  
> John is from Regina, in the Georgia system, which is the planet featured in The Train Job episode of Firefly.  
> Amniculusite and stultorumite are totally made up names of minerals, but the Latin root of amniculus is ‘waterfall’, and stultorum is ‘fool’. Take from that what you will.  
> I got lots of background information on star systems in the ‘Verse from the Firefly/Serenity wiki pages: http://firefly.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock gets gussied up, Juliet goes off script, John learns more than he ever wanted to about puke, and asks a question that embarrasses them both.

The hovercar pulled up in front of the theatre and a footman opened the door. Sherlock stepped out, forcing himself not to blink at the barrage of light from the bank of newsvids, forcing a smile instead. He held out his hand and helped Professor Flynn out of the hovercar.

“Good heavens,” she said, squinting a bit. “What are the media here for?”

 _For me_ , he thought, but did not say. Companions were becoming more and more rare on Persephone; he had just heard that Anya had decided to retire. Of course the news vidders would want a picture of the best and one of the last Companions on Persephone. This was not ego, he told himself, but the truth.

“It’s opening night,” he said to Professor Flynn as he tucked her arm into his. They walked down the carpet towards the theatre doors, smiling for the cameras. “This is a very famous play from Earth-that-was, it hasn’t been performed in nearly one hundred years. It’s quite the occasion.”

“I remember my grandmother telling me about seeing Romeo and Juliet when she was a girl,” Flynn said. “She said it was quite sad.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Sherlock said. “But how can I possibly be sad when I’ll be sitting next to you?”

**

“ _Let me peruse this face. Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man when my betossed soul did not attend him as we rode?”_

Sherlock tried not to sigh too loudly as he let the words wash over them. It wasn’t a bad production, really; someone had taken the time to be historically accurate with the costumes, but the sword fights had been ridiculous, swiping at each other with no real sense of the tension that the scene called for. He wondered for a moment about how different his life would have been if he’d been an actor – then smiled with a sudden memory of John: “ _Tellin’ the truth, I’m relieved you’re not an actor. From what I understand, actors get themselves into all kinds of trouble_.”

He glanced over at Professor Flynn, forcing himself back to the moment with his client. She was staring at the stage, enraptured. He would have to use his best poetry with her later tonight; after this experience, she would respond well to that.

_“O my love, my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered.”_

He saw a tear begin to slip down her cheek, and he swiftly pressed his handkerchief into her hand. She smiled wetly at him and wiped at her eyes.

Sherlock sat back and focused on the stage again. The plot was ridiculous and overly complex – a feud with no reason behind it, and what a stupidly complicated way to fake a death to avoid an unwanted marriage! – but the words were lovely, and the actors spoke with passion.

“ _Here’s to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”_

He found his thoughts wandering to Inara. She had told him a story once about a woman using lipstick as a knock out drug – _thus with a kiss I die_ , indeed. At the Academy, he would sit at her feet and hear her stories about her journeys as a young woman, out in the Black. Her stories filled him with strange feelings, like he was missing a place he had never been. He had felt the stirrings of the same longing with John telling his stories the week previous. John, like Inara, seemed to have an infinite array of tales to tell. He wondered if John would mind meeting outside the purpose of a case, and if he would mind telling Sherlock more of his stories.

_“What’s here? A cup, closed in my true love’s hand? Poison, I…”_

The actress playing Juliet hesitated, and Sherlock saw Romeo twitch. Sherlock frowned; it was the first sign of lack of commitment to the play, and at the climax too. The actress clearly found this unprofessional as well, but went on.

_“Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. Oh churl-”_

Suddenly Romeo’s body arched, and he started to convulse. The actress’s eyes widened, and Sherlock heard a gasp run round the theatre. Sherlock’s frown deepened – he had read the play long ago, and deleted most of it, but he didn’t remember the scene playing out like this.

The actress turned to the side of the stage, and then to the audience. “Oh help!” she screamed.

Nothing happened for a moment, the theatre silent. She screamed again: “ _Cào_ , I’m not acting! Someone help us!”

Then everyone was noise and chaos, with stage hands pouring onto the stage, and Sherlock was pushing his way through the audience. He pulled his vidder out of his pocket and dialled.

“John,” he shouted into the device. “Come to the Yúlè Theatre at once. Take a hovercar. Hurry.”

He disconnected, then called Lestrade.

**

When Lestrade had more or less secured the scene, Sherlock escorted the Professor to a hovercar.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as he helped her in.

“I don’t understand why you need to stay,” she said. Her eyes were reddened and still wet, her hands shaking.

He sighed. This wasn’t the script he had planned for her, and she was a new and important client. But the case was calling him too, and a murder had been attempted in front of hundreds of people.

“The police asked me to,” he said. “Apparently I saw something no one else did, and they need my statement.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John alighting from another hovercar. Sherlock had an abrupt vision of his worlds colliding – his world as a Companion, and his world of crime solving. It suddenly felt desperately important to keep them separate.

He filled his face with regret and promise as he kissed her hand. “Forgive me, Maria. I’ll wave you tomorrow, all right?” he said, and shut the door after her. He waited for the hovercar to move away before he turned to John.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “Police got here before you did, and that’s saying something.”

“Well, pardon,” John said. “I’d just got off my shift when you called. Figured washing a layer of sweat off might be a preferred choice.” He looked up at the theatre, bright with light, and the small knots of people standing outside, crying in their finery. “Given the occasion and all. What happened?”

“A tragedy in a tragedy. Romeo’s poison was real.”

“ _Wei_?”

They entered the theatre. The actors, still in costume, were in small knots across the stage, stunned looks on their faces. Juliet was still weeping noisily. Anderson was handcuffing a woman all in black clothes.

“Ah, Holmes _Xiānshēng_ ,” Anderson said, grinning meanly.  “Too late again. We’ve got the murderer here.”

Sherlock huffed. “I leave for all of three minutes, and you’re jumping to conclusions like a New Canaan sand bear. She’s not the murderer, _shǎzi_ , she saved the man’s life.”

“What?”

“How many times do I have to say it... I was a witness, remember? She was the first to reach him when Juliet screamed, and stuck her fingers down his throat. Got most of the poison out of him. He’s likely to live because of her.” He saw John nodding approvingly beside him.

“She confessed! She said she filled the flask.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned to the woman in black. “You’re the stage manager, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Filling the flask is her job, Anderson. The better question to ask her is, with what did you fill the flask?”

“Just water, sir,” the woman replied. She was trembling but calm. “Water from the tap. In rehearsal the flask was empty, and he just pretended to drink, but at the dress rehearsal his throat was dry after the fight with Paris, and he started coughing during Juliet’s final monologue. So I started putting a bit of water in there for him to drink.”

“There. Now, Anderson _Xiānshēng_ , why would a murderer poison the flask, killing a man without anyone knowing, then promptly save her victim in front of hundreds of witnesses? Also it’s obvious from the scuffs on the toes of her shoes that psychopathy is not in her makeup.” He paused. “As it were.” He heard John snort quietly next to him, but was able to suppress his own smile.

“Well, she – she may be-”

“Take the cuffs off, Anderson,” Lestrade said, walking up. “I’ve warned you about arresting people before you hear the whole story.”

Anderson’s lip twitched, but he pulled the magno-key from his pocket and released the cuffs. The stage manager sighed and winced as her arms fell forward. John stepped up to her.

“All right?” John murmured.

“They were really tight,” the woman sighed. She began to tremble, and John pulled her to a chair.

“Thank you, Anderson,” Sherlock said. “Kindly stop arresting my witnesses and we can get on with this. Now,” he said, turning to the stage manager, “what time did you fill the flask?”

“Well before curtain,” she said. “I like to have everything set before the actors arrive. So around 6:30.”

“And is anyone from outside the company allowed backstage?”

“No, not until after the show.” She smiled ruefully. “We were going to have a party.” She rubbed at her wrists, no doubt still sore and chafing from the handcuffs. John knelt beside her and picked up her hands, examining the reddened skin. Sherlock saw John’s brow contract at the purplish stain on the first two fingers of her right hand.

“You did exactly the right thing,” John murmured to her. “Making him puke. You did the right thing.”

“Which leaves approximately four hours during which any member of the company could have added the poison to the flask,” Sherlock said.

All the actors were suddenly very attentive, turning from each other to face Sherlock.

“ _Wǒ de tiān a_ ,” said the actress playing Juliet. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? The Companion?”

Sherlock frowned – his worlds were colliding again. He would have preferred to be in what he thought of as his detective clothes; the denim and cotton in plain colours would help him fade away. Now, however, dressed in black tie and tails, he was more prominent, more recognizable. No matter.

“Yes,” he sighed, impatiently. “I assume none of you want to come forward and confess? Never mind,” he said without pausing, “this is more fun anyway.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade growled.

“Oh come on, Lestrade. Let me give Anderson a lesson. What you need to do is figure out the person who had both opportunity and reason.”

“You’re even more handsome in person than on the vidders,” Juliet sighed. She brushed at her hair and then her dress as Sherlock gritted his teeth at her vanity. “Oh, I look a fright.”

John stood and crossed to Juliet, kneeling next to her. “You must have been terribly frightened,” he said softly.

“In the past, they would say that poisoning is a woman’s method of murder,” Sherlock said. “I’ve found that this attitude is outdated and frankly misogynist. Poison simply means that you can kill someone with minimum physical effort and without looking them in the eye.”

“It was awful,” Juliet said. “The way he was shaking. And then Lexie came and stuck her fingers down his throat. Now I’ve got this _ǒu tù_ all over my dress.”

“So who could have done it? Could have been a man or a woman.” Sherlock glanced over the assembled cast. “Someone old,” he said, waving at Lord Capulet, “or someone young,” with a dismissive gesture at a boy, barely out of his teens, who had played Peter. “I’ll get to motivation in a moment. Now, who had opportunity?”

“Pretty dress,” John said softly. “May I?” He fiddled with the folds of her dress, revealing the stained spot, streaked through with drying violet liquid. “Not to worry, I’m sure it will come out.”

“I think Juliet can be ruled out. She’s onstage almost as much as Romeo, and when she’s not onstage she’s looking over her lines. You can practically see the book in her head as she speaks. Friar Lawrence-”

“ _Wei_?” said Juliet, blankly.

“-Friar Lawrence doesn’t come on until half way through Act II. However, he was also in the opening fight scene, disguised as one of the Montagues. He then has to change into his monk’s robes, so – not him, not enough time. Now perhaps Paris? That would be ironic, wouldn’t it? The intended groom finally getting his revenge upon the interloper? And he’s not on stage very much, only on stage with Romeo during the party scene – plenty of opportunity. However, I can safely eliminate him because he spends all his time backstage in dark corners with the Nurse. So we can exclude both of them as well.”

Sherlock watched the cast as he spoke, watched their stress levels rise and fall. Some were giving into the tension and weeping quietly. John stood again and walked from one to another, with a kind smile and a friendly hand on a shoulder, whispering reassurances.

“Poison’s not hard to find, either. There’s poison all around us. _What ho, apothecary?_ \- No longer necessary. I doubt the murderer even needed to leave the theatre to find something to use. Though in this case I suspect conculium. It is colourless at room temperature and therefore could be easily slipped into water without detection. It has a slightly tannic taste, but doubtful that Romeo would have noticed that, being out of breath and parched after that brief and unconvincing fight with Paris. Conculium is also easily purchased, as it’s an excellent shoe polish. Works nicely on warts, too. So a perfect poison for the occasion.”

John stopped, and stood behind Benvolio. For the first time since entering the theatre, he looked up at Sherlock. They locked eyes for a moment, and Sherlock then spoke directly to John.

“But the remarkable thing about conculium is that when it heats up to 35 degrees, body temperature -  for instance when swallowed, or comes in contact with skin - it turns a vivid purple colour.”

John’s hand darted down and grabbed Benvolio by the wrist and held it up, showing to all the purple stains on his fingertips.

“ _Jiàn tā de guǐ_ ,” Lestrade said.

**

“That was ridiculous. Most ridiculous thing I’ve seen.”

“Nonsense. Surely you’ve seen stranger things in the Black.”

“Nope, nothin’ like that. Purple puke and plays. Never seen the like. What was it he was shoutin’?” John assumed a dramatic pose, even as he sprawled in the chair. “’Amanda! I wanted to be the Romeo you deserved!’”

Sherlock chuckled as he poured the hot water over the teacups. “Sexual jealousy and ambition rolled into one. Romeo’s understudy with unrequited love for Juliet. Shakespeare could hardly have written better.”

“Who? And what the hell are you doin’?”

“The author of the play. Making tea.”

“Ain’t never seen someone make tea like that.”

Sherlock looked down at the tea tray in surprise. He’d instinctively begun his usual tea ceremony. He shrugged. “Habit. Or do you want something stronger?”

“Naw, thanks. Gotta work in a few hours. Also I’m intrigued. Will it taste better like this, as opposed to the way I make it?”

“How do you make it?”

“Well, you know us low life people.” John held up his palm, cupped. “You put the tea in your hand, pour the hot water over top, and squeeze the tea out.”

Sherlock burst out laughing, and John’s laugh joined his, surprisingly high and lilting. Sherlock handed a cup to John with a slight bow.

“Kind sir, please take some of my high-brow tea.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” John took the cup and sat back, blowing across the top of the tea and disturbing the ribbons of steam as they floated up. “Just thinkin’ about that poor _shǎzi_.  He was in this big play, good role, you said-”

“Yes, Benvolio’s a good part. Fair number of lines, some good scenes.”

“-but he weren’t happy because he weren’t Romeo. Had this idea in his head that it was the lead role or nothin’ else. Got so fixed about it he was willin’ to kill for it.”

“Well, as I said, ambition. Next to sexual jealousy, it’s the most common motivator for violent crimes.”

“Hm. What about you?”

“What?”

John waved a hand at him, at the room, the tea. “Is this what you always wanted? I mean, you clearly don’t have to worry about money. You’re famous, everyone knows who you are. Did you always want to be a Companion?”

Sherlock shrugged. Without thinking, he went to his desk, took a piece of paper and began to fold it. “I went to the Academy when I was twelve. I don’t remember having any strong ideas about what I wanted before that. I think I vaguely assumed I would go to the same school as my brother. I graduated when I was eighteen and have been working ever since.”

“What about the detectin’? You told me how it started, but was that something you had wanted to do? Played games about it when you were a kid?”

“Not really. I was always good at observing people. That’s what makes me a good Companion, and then the crime element just came along by accident.” He stopped for a moment, remembering Inara; what would his life be like now if she hadn’t taken him under her wing?

“How does it work?” John asked.

“Hm?”

“The Companion thing. How does it work? I mean,” John looked down into his tea, and Sherlock saw the tips of his ears turn red, “I been to a whorehouse but I suspect it ain’t like that.”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t mean to offend.” John’s ears were scarlet now.

“Not offended. You’re right, it is quite different. Companions choose who they want to engage with. Prospective clients make a proposal on vidder, and I choose based on compatibility and interest.”

“Whether they’re good looking?”

“No, that doesn’t matter. It’s their minds I find intriguing.”

“So you wouldn’t sleep with a stupid person?”

“God, no.”

John fiddled with the delicate teacup, the china looking fragile in his calloused hands. “That woman last night – the woman you were helpin’ into a hovercar – she was a client?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“She’s brilliant. She’s a professor at a prestigious university. She’s had several papers published on improving the agriculture of Terraformed planets.”

“So you take them out for… a date?”

“No, just her. While I’m reviewing clients’ proposals, I observe their behaviour and their demeanor, and I can deduce what they wish, what they need from the encounter. Professor Flynn, for instance, is a woman who has had to battle for her work to be respected, and has had to harden herself. I deduced that what she needs is old-fashioned romance.”

“Knight in shining armour, yeah?”

“Precisely. So I dress a certain way.” Sherlock indicated his suit, his bow tie now undone and hanging slack around his neck, and the jacket with tails thrown across the sofa. “I treat her with the courtesy she craves but does not receive from her colleagues. I take her to grand opera, plays – all with romantic, tragic themes.”

“And she likes that.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like her?”

Sherlock looked at John, confused. “Do I like her? She’s very intelligent, didn’t I say?”

“Yeah, but do you like her like her?”

“No. She’s a client, nothing more.”

“Have you ever liked a client? Like, enough to, I don’t know, say, I don’t want your money?”

Sherlock frowned. “John, I-”

John held up a hand, his face closing down. “I’m sorry. That’s rude of me.”

“No, John, it’s just that – I couldn’t do that. It would make things quite… complicated.”

“Of course. Of course. Forget I – sorry.”

There was silence for a moment, uncomfortable and tense. Sherlock found himself already missing the easy flow of words between them. He covered his discomfort by concentrating on the folds of his origami.

“What about you?” Sherlock said. “What did you want to be when you were a child? Did you always want to be a New Alliance soldier?”

John smiled, and there was a note of gratitude in it. “All I knew is I didn’t want to be a miner. Figured that out early. Soldierin’ seemed like an easy way out of it that my Da couldn’t disapprove of.”

“But you stayed.”

“I did. Found I liked it. Liked the runnin’ around, the excitement… living on risk, you know? And savin’ people… nothing like the rush of seein’ someone you thought was gonna die, stand up and walk out of the hospital.”

“And then you got shot.”

John nodded, solemn, and said, almost to himself, “And then I got shot. Must admit I’ve been driftin’ around ever since.” John came back to himself, and looked back to Sherlock. “Got a _gǒushǐ_ job now, but it pays well, and I’m savin’ up.”

“For what?”

“Speakin’ of ambition.” John’s face lit up. “There’s a ship I’ve got an eye on. I’ve almost got enough for it now. Just a small ship, won’t take too much fuel to fly her. Gonna start a courier business, shuttlin’ small cargo from planet to planet. I get restless if I’m stuck in one place too long, I figure that will take care of that and make me enough money to keep flyin’.”

Sherlock felt something fall inside him at the thought of John leaving Persephone in the near future. _It’s his life_ , he told himself firmly. “What are you doing now, to earn the credits for the ship? You said you have a shift.”

John grinned, and finished his tea. “I do, but I ain’t tellin’ you. You have to guess. Figure I gotta challenge you somehow. Though it’s gonna be an interestin’ shift with no sleep.” He stood. “Thanks for a fascinatin’ evening. Again.”

Sherlock held out the origami monkey he’d made. “Want this one?”

John took the tiny paper animal between his fingers. “Cute. Naw, keep him with the rest of the zoo. Don’t want him to be lonely. _Xiexie_ for the tea.”

And with a wave he went out the door.

Sherlock stared at the door for a moment, then placed the monkey on the windowsill with the rest of the origami animals, watching the silhouettes they made as the sun rose behind them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes  
> Cào = fuck  
> Shǎzi = idiot  
> Wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God (literally ‘oh my sky’)  
> ǒu tù = vomit  
> Conculium = another made up chemical name, but it’s Latin for purple  
> Jiàn tā de guǐ = bloody hell  
> Shǎzi = idiot  
> Gǒushǐ = shit  
> Xiexie  = thank you


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Mycroft keeps an eye open, Lestrade wants to make a new deputy, Sherlock hears a story he's never heard before, and learns something about knitting.

Sherlock sighed, the weight of the world in his breath, as he sat down to his desk and answered the wave.

“ _Rénxiōng_ ,” Sherlock said absently as he fiddled with the hem of his dressing gown.

“ _Xiándì_ ,” Mycroft said.

“Why are you in Kalidasa?”

Mycroft’s bland face didn’t even register surprise at Sherlock’s deduction, damn him. “A small matter that required my attention.”

“Urgent?”

“Of course. You know most of my work is.”

“Then off you go. Nice to chat.”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “No, _Xiándì_ , not so urgent that I cannot speak with you. I heard about the sensational events at the theatre yesterday. It’s been all over the newsvidders.”

“Has it?”

“Yes.” Mycroft looked stern. “Sherlock, you said you would try to keep your little… hobby quiet. It won’t do your reputation as a Companion any good to be involved in such tawdry situations.”

“I certainly didn’t want to be front and centre,” Sherlock frowned. “I tried to leave discreetly, but the actors had already blabbed to the newsvidders and I got snapped. It’s not like I sat down to an interview.”

“You weren’t just snapped, were you? You were snapped with this fellow… John Watson?”

Sherlock winced inwardly. It was one thing for him to be in the spotlight, he was used to it. He had hoped that John hadn’t been noticed. “Yes. He’s been assisting me.”

“For several cases now.”

“Yes. He has a background in medicine and has some areas of expertise that have been helpful.”

“And you have entertained him at your home on two occasions.”

Sherlock felt frost pull his lips into a snarl. “That wasn’t on the vidders.”

“No.”

“You’re spying on me again, Mycroft.”

Mycroft had the nerve to look nonchalant and unperturbed by Sherlock’s rising rage. “I merely keep an eye on you for your own safety and for your own good.”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

“Sherlock, you must be cautious of your reputation. For you to be… entertaining a man of no worth-”

“Stop right there.” The pause in Mycroft’s sentence was making Sherlock see red. “I was not ‘entertaining’ him, Mycroft. He. Is. My. Friend.”

“Friend?” And now, only now, Mycroft looked astonished.

“Yes. You’ve heard of those, haven’t you?”

Mycroft had quickly recovered and schooled his face into his usual placidity. “How quaint. That said, however, I still insist you consider your reputation. If word gets around that your standards are lowering-”

“Anyone who is perturbed about my friendship with John is not someone I want as a client. And I reiterate once again that my choice of clients is just that: mine. I consider some of your suggestions for what you call the ‘political good’ because of your position in the New Alliance, but it’s my right to refuse anyone I wish. Is that clear?”

“Calm down, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in a maddeningly patient tone that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. “Of course it’s your choice. I simply urge you to consider your reputation. Perception is reality, you know. Was Professor Flynn upset at your having to cut the evening short?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. He really shouldn’t let his brother get under his skin. “No. I made it up to her.” He had bribed his way into her flat the next morning and woken her with champagne, flowery apologies, and a few techniques he had perfected over the years.

“Good. She’s very near a breakthrough in her studies, you know.”

“I know.”

“Her work could make a significant impact on the economy of Terraformed planets.”

“I _know_ , Mycroft. We do talk.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said as he smiled patronizingly. “Well, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead. Lots of odd little cases to investigate.”

“I do. Must get on.” In fact, Sherlock had nothing to do but go in to give Lestrade his formal statement.

“Oh, and _Xiándì_ – how long has it been since you’ve seen Ms Serra?”

Sherlock tried to disguise his confusion and concern rising in his face, but doubted he had fooled Mycroft. “Not for a while.”

“I would advise a visit soon.”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing definite. But it would be good to see her.”

Sherlock let himself breathe; once, twice. “I’ll go this afternoon.”

**

“So is this going to be a regular thing?”

“Hm?” Sherlock pressed his fingerprint on the tablet, confirming his statement, and threw the tablet back towards Lestrade.

“That Watson fella. He going to come with you regularly?”

Why is everyone so concerned about this? Sherlock thought, but merely said, “Perhaps.”

“Just wondering if I needed to deputize him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I get in enough trouble bringing you in on cases, let alone you bringing someone else along. My commander wasn’t too pleased about the publicity about you after the theatre case.”

“I can’t help that – neither the newsvidders nor your commander.”

Lestrade grinned. “Don’t get all twitchy, I’m just teasing. John seems a good sort.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He’s passing clever.”

“Weird cases lately, aren’t they? I mean, you know that I generally don’t call you in for the regular stuff, but…”

“I often suspect that you call me in for anything more serious than a child stealing candy.”

“Hey now.”

“Goodbye, Lestrade.” Sherlock stood to go, brushing the wrinkles out of his kurta.

“Oh, and Sherlock? Your man John?” Still grinning, Lestrade leaned in confidentially. “Anderson’s _xià sǐ le_ of him.”

Sherlock found himself smiling back. “Excellent.”

**

“Sherlock, you little wretch, you haven’t been to see me in far too long!”

Inara had aged since Sherlock had last seen her, her body frail and thin and her face lined, but her hair was thick and pure white, cascading down her back, and her voice was still strong and girlish.

“Come and sit. Let’s have tea and you can tell me everything about your glittering career.”

As he sat opposite Inara, he noted that she bent carefully and tentatively, and her delicate hands were swollen at the knuckles. “Let me pour the tea, _Lǎoshī_.”

Inara graciously tilted her head, and sat back with a sigh of relief as Sherlock warmed the pot. “You’ve grown into your beauty, _xiǎo dìdì_ ,” she said. “I remember when you first came to us - all arms and legs and hair and mouth.”

“I’m afraid many would say that at least the latter is still true.”

“Those who would say so have no understanding of your true value,” Inara said. She accepted her tea from him, cupping her hands around the warmth of the cup. “And now you are the most renowned companion on Persephone.”

“There are not many of us left, _Lǎoshī_ ,” Sherlock said. “It is easy to be the best when there are few fish in the pond.”

“You would still rise to the top, even if there were hundreds.”

“You honour me, _Lǎoshī_.”

She tilted her head, and suddenly Sherlock felt twelve years old again under her gaze, as sharp as ever. “There’s something different about you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what it is but…”

Sherlock froze as she stared, until she waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here, and the tea is hot, and we have time to talk.”

“I think you could talk for a hundred years and I would never have enough of your stories,” Sherlock said. He paused, pressing his lips together, and decided to dare. “You spent time out in the Rim, when you were a young woman, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, several years. I rented a shuttle on a ship, a lovely ship. Serenity, it was called - isn’t that a beautiful name for a ship?”

“Indeed. What is it like, out there?”

She smiled at him. “I forget, you’ve lived your whole life on Persephone, haven’t you? Never been into the Black.” She paused, and Sherlock knew she was gathering her thoughts.

“The Rim can be dark, and wide, and vast. Some think it’s cold, and lonely, but I never felt that out there. I was with the right people, and I never felt alone.” She laughed to herself. “Mal - the captain - oh, he was a _shăgua_.   He’d call me a whore to my face, but bloody the nose of anyone else who called me the same.” Her eyes flickered up to Sherlock, and he saw the vast distances between stars there. “I loved him, you know. And he loved me. Thank God we finally bent our stiff necks and told each other.”

Sherlock sat back, stunned. He had always known she carried a secret, but had no idea what it had been. “You never told me that, _Lǎoshī_.”

“I’ve never told anyone, _xiǎo dìdì_. We chose that, he and I. But he’s gone now, so...” Her sight turned inwards again, and Sherlock knew she was lost in her memories of this man. “He said to me once that we all die alone. Goodness knows he kept trying to do so! But in the end, he died an old man, in his bed, and I made damn sure he didn’t die alone.”

He saw the water gather in her eyes, but she did not allow a tear to fall. She blinked, smiled brightly, and took a sip of tea. “Now it’s your turn to speak, Sherlock. Is it true that you have General Lin on your waiting list, you naughty boy?”

**

_Clic clic clic clic_

Mrs. Hudson was knitting as Sherlock watched the sun set through the parlour window. He felt strangely restless and uneasy, and he didn’t know why. Normally he would have found the sound of her needles irritating, but this evening the sound pinned him to his chair. The sound was like someone speaking, whispering, just out of his hearing range, a secret just out of reach. Hypnotic.

_Clic clic clic clic_

“How is Ms Serra?”

Sherlock let his lungs fill and empty before he could bring himself to answer. “Failing.”

“Aw.” _Clic clic clic clic_. “She’s had a good long life, as a Companion and then as a teacher.”

“Yes.”

_Clic clic clic clic_. “You know, I heard a rumour about her once – that she was very ill as a young woman, and was cured by a doctor and his sister that she travelled with out in the Rim.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard that. Sounds a bit far-fetched.”

“Well, most rumours do.” _Clic clic clic clic_. “I suppose you could meet all sorts of people out in the Black.”

Sherlock found himself staring at Mrs. Hudson’s hands as she knitted, at the needles and the wool. Watched the finished material grow under her hands.

“Such odd cases you’ve had lately, Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“The theatre one. So strange. If they’d made a televidder with that story, I wouldn’t watch, it would be too unbelievable.”

“That’s not saying much about the televidders you do watch.”

“Don’t you make fun of my soapstories, young man.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

Knitting was an odd thing, Sherlock thought. He wondered how it had developed; thousands of years ago on Earth-that-was, he supposed. But who had taken two sticks and a piece of string and figured out how to manipulate them into a more or less solid object, which could then be made into a garment? Was it an accident? Had someone observed a spider weaving a web, and tried to duplicate it? Had someone figured out mathematically how to do it?

_Clic clic clic clic_.

“I saw the Admiral on the vidder earlier, making some speech or other. He’s looking better, I think, since he started seeing you. He’s really pulled together.”

_Clic clic clic clic_.

If you took a knitted garment, and made  one tiny cut, the whole thing would unravel and fall apart. Transformed again into one long string.

_Clic clic clic clic_.

‘Weird cases lately,’ Lestrade had said. And they had been. Normally Sherlock never thought about a case again after it was solved, but the cases over the past few months had been increasingly bizarre. And while most criminals were generally stupid, the culprits lately did not seem to have the intelligence to pull off the crimes that they had. And yet they had.

_Clic clic clic clic_.

Knitting was manipulating string until it didn’t look like string any more. Hiding in plain sight.

“It’s all connected,” Sherlock breathed.

“Pardon, dear?” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock stood and walked to his desk. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, and began to pull together case notes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes  
> Xiándì = my virtuous younger brother  
> Rénxiōng = my kind older brother  
> Xià sǐ le = scared to death  
> Xiǎo dìdì = little brother  
> Shăgua = dumbass


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock gets gussied up for a shindig, and he and John show Persephone something they haven't seen before - and it ain't strawberries.

The footman cleared his throat and called out, “Commissioner Edward Yun, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

There had been a bit of a bidding war for Sherlock’s company to the Persephone Ball. It indicated the dwindling number of working Companions on Persephone, with Sherlock still considered the finest. Mycroft had handled the competition, balancing the factors of money, prestige, and personality. Sherlock had no interest in the money itself, nor the prestige; if it were up to him, he’d just pick the first name on the list and be done with it. He had to admit that Mycroft, with his diplomatic skills honed in the New Alliance, was better at figuring out the best candidate to accompany Sherlock, and was far better at soothing the egos of those who had not succeeded.

Sherlock heard Commissioner Yun gasp as they entered the ballroom, and smiled. He had seriously considered not going to the Ball and remaining at home to continue his work, but now he was glad he had gone out. The Commissioner was relatively clever, and had never been to the Ball on Persephone before; it felt good to show off a bit.

The case was still on his mind, however. He had been working on it in every spare moment for two weeks now. He had kept his appointments, but the moment the door closed on his satisfied and sated client, he would rush to his private rooms and pick up where he had left off. It was fascinating work. Until now Sherlock had not dwelt upon a case after it was solved; now he was reviewing every case he could remember to see if he could spot the elusive silvery thread connecting them. He had forbidden Mrs. Hudson from cleaning those rooms, for fear of her disturbing a potential solution hidden amongst papers, tablets, notes, and maps. There had to be something there. There had to be.

“Extraordinary,” Commissioner Yun murmured. Sherlock shook himself internally and returned his attention to the present.

“Welcome to the Persephone social occasion of the year,” he said, smiling at the Commissioner.

“Is it always like this? So lavish.”

Sherlock cast a critical eye around the room. “I believe they’ve added another tier to the chandelier,” he said wryly. “Really though, you’ve not been to the Ball before? I was astonished when you said so.”

“True, I’m afraid,” the Commissioner said. “My work has never allowed me the time before. My grandfather used to tell me about the Balls he attended. And my mother met my father at one.”

“Well, then. I am honoured to accompany you.”

“Ah, no, I am the one who is honoured. I have greater honour than anyone else in the room.”

“Why is that?”

The Commissioner leaned in close. “I have the honour of having you on my arm.”

Sherlock gave the Commissioner his most charming smile. “Let me introduce you to some people you may not know,” he said.

They worked their way around the room, chatting and shaking hands. Inside, Sherlock felt his mind slipping back to the problem. He could see the threads connecting the cases, an organizing factor behind a wide variety of crimes, like strings on a puppet, but how to name the puppeteer? He should ask Lestrade for case files for some high profile crimes that Sherlock had not been involved in; perhaps the theft of gold bars from the Persephone Bank two years ago –

“Sherlock?”

He turned, and his true smile broke out across his face. “Tjinn! How good to see you!” He kissed her on both cheeks, genuinely happy to see her. “You look exactly the same as you did at the Academy.”

“And you fulfilled every prophecy of Ms Serra, and are more beautiful now than ever. It’s outrageous, it’s not fair.”

“You’re too kind.” He turned to the Commissioner. “Commissioner, may I present Tjinn Harbord, my former classmate at the Naditu Academy. Tjinn, Commissioner Edward Yun. Who are you here with, Tjinn?”

Tjinn nodded towards the banquet table. “Senator Wing. He saw strawberries on the table and I haven’t seen him since. Promise me a waltz later, Sherlock?”

“With pleasure.”

Sherlock snagged champagne for the Commissioner and himself, and surveyed the room. The dance floor was already rustling with ball gowns and uniforms. “Do you like to dance, Commissioner?”

The Commissioner chuckled ruefully as he shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I dance like an elephant, dear Sherlock. You enjoy it?”

“I do. But not to worry, I appreciate watching the dancers just as much.”

He was lying. His feet were already itching to join, even though the dance was only a fusty cotillion. No matter.

“If you’ll excuse me, Sherlock, I’m going to see about these mythical strawberries. Shall I bring you back some?”

“Lovely.”

Sherlock allowed himself to relax a little as the Commissioner headed towards the banquet table. He looked over the crowd, noting familiar faces. He could see a few of his clients swirling on the dance floor; he could also see people whispering and pointing, subtly behind hands or fans. He was used to this kind of attention and generally paid it no notice, but now he wondered: were they were talking about his fame as a Companion, or of his recent appearance on the newsvidders about the murder at the theatre? Either way, he didn’t care – people will talk.

Suddenly, amidst the jewel tones of silk and satin, bright medals and diamonds, he saw one figure in dull gray, standing in a corner by the doors. He was nearly unnoticeable, unobtrusive, unassuming, but constantly scanning the crowd, alert and watchful.

Sherlock grinned, put down his champagne, and made his way to the corner.

“Hello John,” he said.

John smiled and shook his head ruefully as Sherlock approached. “Shoulda known you’d be at a shindig like this.”

Sherlock nodded at John’s dull gray uniform. “So this is the _gǒushǐ_ job you were speaking of - private security.”

“Knew you’d guess it in time. Though I’m inclined to say that this is cheatin’, somewhat.”

“I can’t help it that you were here, resplendent in your glamour.”

“Ah, shut it.” John pulled at the collar of the ill-fitting jacket. “It itches, but I gotta wear it.”

“Worth the pay?”

“Almost. And I almost have enough for my ship. Then I think I’ll burn the uniform as fuel.”

“Surely you can afford a ship that runs on isotopes at least?”

“Best I can hope for. Without this job, I woulda had to get something I had to pedal.” John nodded towards the room. “I think that fella’s looking for you. Client?”

Sherlock saw Commissioner Yun, holding a plate full of strawberries, looking around the room. “Indeed. I’ll let you get back to your work, preventing violence in the halls of the elite.”

“Don’t you start.”

Sherlock felt a childish urge to stick his tongue out at him, but controlled himself and schooled his expression into something more professional. He crossed back to the Commissioner.

“Ah, there you are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a plump strawberry from the Commissioner’s plate. “These are amazing. Trust you to find the best on the table.”

The Commissioner’s eyes glazed over a bit as Sherlock bit into the strawberry. “I already have the best in the room with me now.”

Sherlock smiled, flirtatious and dark. “Only the best for you, Commissioner.”

As the evening went on, despite his best efforts to stay in the present, Sherlock found that his thoughts strayed over and over again to the case. He felt he was so close, as if a single word would trigger the solution in his brain. Then the Commissioner would ask him a question, or they would be greeted by another high profile party attendee, and he would have to force himself to focus. At one point he realized that he hadn’t told John about his theory of the cases being connected, and briefly considered suggesting to John that they work on it together after the Ball. Then he looked over at the Commissioner, and remembered what his priority this evening should be, and who he would be going home with. He shook himself minutely. Focus, he thought, and ate another strawberry in a way that was guaranteed to get the Commissioner’s attention.

The music shifted to a teasing, tantalizing air, dramatic and strong. The orchestra leader leapt down from his stand, and began to circle the edges of the dance floor, holding two bells crossed in his right hand.

“The Ar-tine!” he cried.  “Who can dance the Ar-tine?”  

The band leader was winding his way through the crowd, ringing the tiny bells, grinning madly. The band itself was vamping dramatically, trembling on notes intended to increase anticipation.

“The Ar-tine - is that a local dance?” the Commissioner asked.

“Oh no, it’s a very old dance, originating back on Earth-That-Was,” Sherlock said. “Fantastically complicated to perform, and occasionally dangerous if you don’t do it right. Marvellous music, though - do you hear the beat? It’s a 4/8 time, and most dance music is 4/4.”

The Commissioner chuckled. “I’m tone-deaf, my dear Sherlock, and couldn’t dance if you fired a gun at my feet.” He turned to Sherlock, his gaze warm and slightly aroused. “You can dance it, though?”

Sherlock smiled back. “Of course. But I’m one of the very few that can. Not even my colleague Tjinn could manage it,” he nodded at her. “I’m surprised they’re calling for dancers; I can only think of three or four who know it, and none of them are-”

But then Sherlock’s eye caught sight of John, by the doors, and saw him moving slightly, with contained restless energy, to the beat of the music.

John knew.

Sherlock had walked away from the Commissioner and crossed the room without realizing he had stopped mid-sentence. The crowd was focused on the band leader, and no one noticed him pushing through the throng until he reached John.

“You know this,” Sherlock said; John startled at his voice. “You know this dance.”

“Well - yeah,” John said, blushing at the tips of his ears. “But I-”

“Well then,” Sherlock said, lifting his eyebrow, and turned and walked directly to the middle of the dance floor.

The crowd made way for him, and he could hear people calling, “Sherlock! Sherlock!” He raised his chin and strutted like a peacock - he was known for his talents on the dance floor, and admiration was like a drug for him. He walked a circle around the floor, delineating his dance space. The band seamlessly restarted the music from the beginning; Sherlock saw the leader smirk, and he smirked back.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the floor, feeling the dance and the music settle into his bones, and extended his hand. John, still against the wall, hesitated, then politely pushed his way through the assembly towards Sherlock.

The crowd gasped as John emerged onto the dance floor. His ill-fitting suit and demeanor made it blatantly obvious to everyone in the hall that he was not one of the elite, that he was a hired man. Sherlock smiled at him as John ignored the murmur of scandal running around the hall, and John took his hand.

“You are a madman, you are,” John whispered.

“And yet here you are,” Sherlock said. They moved into the opening position, hip to hip, right arms around each other’s waist, left arms held high. “Do you want to dance the lead?”

“Sure, but I thought - you’re taller.”

“You want to dance backwards?”

“Not really.”

“Then dance the lead. I can follow; I wasn’t always this tall, you know. I learned both parts.”

The music began its introductory tease, and John and Sherlock began the opening move: a slight bend of the knees, and a slow trace of a circle with the left foot. Sherlock fixed John with the intense eye contact the dance required, and John’s eyes locked onto his.

“Shall we?” he said.

John grinned. “Ready when you are.”

They began to move, maintaining contact by the edges of their hips and their arms encircling each other’s waists. Sherlock’s muscle memory kicked in; it had been years since he had learned the Ar-tine at the Academy. He had had a client, years ago, who could dance it, but he had danced with mere technical competence and not skill. Sherlock once heard him counting the beats under his breath.

But John moved with grace and fluidity, and led Sherlock strongly across the floor.

“You’re good,” Sherlock said.

“Ain’t so bad yourself,” John replied.

Sherlock had not been exaggerating about the dance to the Commissioner. The Ar-tine was a terribly complex dance; even the basic steps were enough to make the average dancer stumble. But depending upon the skill of the dancer, additional steps could be added, much like seasoning on a dish.

John knew the dance, that was clear, but Sherlock wondered how well he knew it. He wondered, and then he dared.

After several measures, and the first basic section of the dance had been accomplished, Sherlock danced the first indications of a cue of an embellishment in choreography – a flip of the leg, which, if the timing was correct, would tangle perfectly with the partner’s leg. If John didn’t know it, it would simply look like a showy pose on Sherlock’s part.

But John’s leg was there, at the correct angle, their calves touching briefly, without hesitation or error.

“Where did you learn this?” Sherlock whispered as they moved back into the flow of the dance.

John huffed a grin. “Once, after a particularly good payoff, I blew a wad of credits at a whorehouse on Genae. I was there for a week. Girl there taught it to me.”

“Later,” Sherlock murmured, “you will have to tell me more about this whorehouse. And the name of the girl.”

“Later, sure,” John said.

Sherlock could hear the crowd murmuring, could sense their mixed reactions. On the one hand, they were witnessing a rarely-performed dance being executed with skill. On the other hand, a scandal was unravelling before them – the great Companion Sherlock Holmes, dancing with a hired man. Persephone was not without its class differences, and though most of the elite were too polite to comment upon it, the divide was there. Mycroft was right; there were no doubt whispers running around the room about the rumours regarding Sherlock ‘entertaining’ John, but at this particular moment, Sherlock couldn’t give a damn.

“Are you up for the neck drop?” Sherlock said.

“Been a while,” John said, his breath coming shorter than before. “Also you’re a fair bit taller than my last partner. You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Right then.”

Sherlock moved across John’s body, tucking his hands onto his hips, and John’s arm snaked around Sherlock’s neck as he turned. Sherlock released his weight, trusting in the strength of John’s arm, and found himself parallel to the floor, mere inches above the ground. The crowd gasped, and John grinned down at him.  Sherlock placed one foot on the floor and pushed himself back up.

“That was fun,” John said. “Would it be showin’ off to do it again?”

“Oh heavens, we mustn’t start showing off now,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock’s heart was racing with exhilaration. The music filled his head, pushing out all thoughts of clients, cases, the crowd, everything. The beat of the music became his heartbeat, pushing blood through his body, moving his limbs through the steps of the dance. He could no longer tell his legs and arms from John’s. They were dancing as one entity, moving together as though they had danced together for centuries. The beat was –

“They’re speedin’ up the-”

“- tempo, yes, I can hear. Come on!”

There was a bead of sweat on John’s right temple. A single drop of sweat, resting there. The room had disappeared to Sherlock. He and John were dancing inside a bubble, where only they and the music existed. John was dancing with skill, dancing with Sherlock better than anyone ever had, and dancing with so much effort that he was sweating. Sweating and smiling at Sherlock.

“Go, Sherlock! Let’s go!” John shouted over the music.

The music was playing faster and faster, and they were spinning faster and faster, reaching the climax of the dance. Sherlock could see the people gathered around them, their expressions of awe, of disgust. He could see Tjinn’s face lined with worry, and Commissioner Yun’s face contorted with jealousy and anger, and Sherlock was laughing uncontrollably as the bead of sweat rolled down John’s grinning face.

They finished with a flourish, and the bubble around them broke as the crowd roared. They were immediately surrounded by people, clapping Sherlock on the back, shouting out their congratulations and amazement. Sherlock found himself gulping for air, aware of the effort of the dance for the first time. He saw Commissioner Yun pushing his way through the crowd towards him, his brows knotted and stern, then felt a firm tug on his hand.

He found himself pulled through the mass of people as if he was dreaming, pulled away from Commissioner Yun’s angry face, away from the swarm of hands pulling at him. Suddenly he was outside, and John was leading him away from the hotel, down the street to an alley.

The alley was dark and cool and abruptly quiet after the tumult of the Ball. John stopped and turned to face Sherlock, leaning against the rough brick. Sherlock saw that the bead of sweat had multiplied, that John’s face was florid and dewy. John’s eyes were serious and steady as he stepped closer to Sherlock and placed his hands on Sherlock’s waist.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said, “you are the most amazin’ creature I ever-”

Sherlock felt the explosion before he heard it, a wave of air breaking against his back, buffeting him into John’s body. The sound assaulted his ears as forcefully, and he and John both instinctively crouched to hide from it, their arms flying up to protect themselves and each other.

Sherlock’s hearing yawned into a humming noise that hurt. In the droning silence, he and John stared at each other.

“That was-”

“-the hotel,” John said.

Then something popped, and the screaming started from behind them. Sherlock stared at John for a moment more, then they began to run back towards the screaming.

The hotel’s front entrance was a chaos of brick and iron and people running. Guests of the ball were hiking up their silken skirts and running from the hotel, their faces streaked with dust and blood. Sherlock saw a man carrying Tjinn away, her beautiful face covered in gore; he recognized her only by her dress. He and John pushed against the panicking crowd, back into the hotel.

Dust was still rolling through the ballroom. The floating chandelier had crashed in the centre of the dance floor, where he and John had been dancing only a few minutes earlier. Wails and sirens cut through the air.

While Sherlock stood, frozen in place, John moved forward to a keening woman whose leg was trapped under the chandelier. He could distantly hear John speaking to her: “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” his voice calm and soothing, offering comfort and help.

Sherlock stared around the room, his eyes jumping from one horrible sight to another - weeping men, weeping women, piles of rubble where the table of rich food had stood before. Then, on the far side of the room, he caught sight of one crumpled figure, black suit gone gray with dust, dust and blood glinting off the medals on his chest.

“Oh no,” he heard himself saying. “No, _wǒ de tiān a_ , no.”

He found himself kneeling at Commissioner Yun’s side, not knowing how he got there. His hands fluttered uselessly over Yun’s body, knowing somehow that there was no point in checking his pulse.

Suddenly there were firm arms around his shoulders. “Let’s go, Holmes _Xiānshēng_ ,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be led away, stumbling over debris, not able to take his eyes off the torn and broken body of his client, the one for whom only the best would do.

 

 Check out this amazing art by khorazir of the At-tine! This was commissioned by addictedstilltheaddict for Fandom Trumps Hate.

<https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/170238871598/the-ar-tine-for-this-years-fandomtrumpshate>

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:  
> Gǒushǐ = shit  
> Wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God (literally ‘oh my sky’)  
> Xiānshēng = Mister  
> The Ar-Tine is meant to be a version of the Argentine Tango, kind of like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZEckpXniWo  
> It’s often danced with two men, which is AMAZING.  
> Neck drop in tango - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ooj2jitC28w


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock's makeup is a mess, Anderson jumps to another arrest, and Sherlock receives some very interesting waves.

Sherlock sat in his chair, staring into the fire in the grate. He was surrounded by his case notes, and he didn’t look at them. His desk, with its neat pile of origami paper, was at hand, but he didn’t reach out to take a sheet. His clothes were stiff with dust and blood, and he didn’t move to change.

He heard whispers behind him but they didn’t matter. He stared into the fire.

“He hasn’t moved since his brother’s people brought him back last night,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Won’t eat, won’t bathe. He’s not hurt, I think, but…” Her voice went high with worry.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” said Lestrade, low and gravelly.

Sherlock saw Lestrade sit in the chair opposite in his peripheral vision. Lestrade looked creased and worn; Sherlock dully observed that he probably hadn’t slept since hearing the news of the bombing.

“All right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s lips parted to speak, and he tasted grit on his lips. “Are you in charge of the investigation?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not in charge, no, but we’re all on it. Sherlock-”

“How many?”

“ _Wei_?”

“How many dead?”

A long, heavy sigh. “Fifteen. Forty injured, some quite badly so the number’s likely to go up. The New Alliance is pushing to-” Lestrade shifted, looked uncomfortable. “They’ve made an arrest.”

“Just one? A bomb of that magnitude would need coordination from-”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said sharply, “I need to know – how well do you know that fella John Watson?”

Sherlock’s head swung to Lestrade, his neck creaking against stiff muscles. “You’ve arrested him?”

“Well, not me personally, I’m not in charge but-”

“Must have been Anderson. Preposterous. I knew you were all incompetent but you’ve fallen to new depths.”

“He was seen… dancing with you, and then he disappeared, just before the bomb went off. No one saw him. When they questioned him he couldn’t give an account of where he was. He was the only one who couldn’t provide an alibi.”

“ _Shǎzi_. He was with me.”

“What?”

Sherlock sat, ramrod straight in his chair, quivering with tension. “He’s no more guilty than I am. No one questioned me, and I disappeared right after the dance as well. He was with me.”

Lestrade sighed, his head falling to his chest. “And he wouldn’t say that… to protect you.”

Sherlock said nothing. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

“Sherlock, this could be – difficult. Bad for your reputation, your standing, you-”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock snapped. “And he came back, Lestrade. We came back and he was treating the wounded, while I stood there like a…” Sherlock swallowed hard. “Get him out. I’m his alibi. Turn on your vidder, I’ll give my testimony now. Just get him out.”

Wordlessly Lestrade took out his vidder, switched it to record, and nodded at Sherlock. Sherlock faced the screen and spoke firmly.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, Companion, Persephone City. On the evening of the bombing, John Watson was with me…”

It was the work of a moment. When the recording was done, Sherlock slumped and turned his attention back to the fire. He heard Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson whispering again by the door.

“Will you need any help?” Lestrade asked.

“I think I’ll be fine,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You go and do as he asks.”

Then Mrs. Hudson was beside him, her cool hand on his. “Come now, Sherlock dear,” she said, and her voice was soft and beckoning. She pulled slightly on his hand, and he rose and followed her.

“It will be all right now, you’ll see, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said as she led him to the bathroom. The bath was already full, steaming and sweet smelling. “Detective Lestrade’s a good man, and he’ll take care of it. He won’t let Watson _Xiānshēng_ stay in jail. He’ll take care of it.”

He hardly noticed her helping him out of his clothes. Puffs of dust curled up from them as they fell to the floor. “That’s it, dear, you’ll feel ever so much better,” Mrs. Hudson murmured. “In you get, now.”

The water was warmer than blood, and he lay back into the water as his skin prickled at it. He felt a long sigh leave his body, and was grateful that Mrs. Hudson did not comment upon the break in his voice near the end of it.

“That’s it dear,” she said, and picked up his clothes.

Sherlock looked at the bundle in her hands, unrecognizable from the colourful silk that had swirled around him as he had danced the night before. “Burn them,” he said tonelessly.

“All right,” Mrs. Hudson said. For the first time, she allowed her worry to show on her face as she left the room.

Sherlock cupped his hands full of water and sluiced it over his face. The water turned slightly pink.

He leaned back and let the water wash over his head and face.

**

Sherlock was alone on the stage, and there were thousands of people in the audience. He was dressed in an exquisite kimono, his makeup flawless in the mask of a geisha. He held a fan and was dancing with precision and grace. The audience gasped and cheered at his skill.

He bowed over and over, accepting the audience’s rapture as nectar.

He left the stage and walked to his dressing room. The hallways were lined with eager fans, waiting to congratulate him on his performance. But as he passed, their faces froze from excited anticipation to shock to horror. Silence surrounded him, embarrassed and awkward.

His confusion rose to the point of near terror. He began to run, trying to get away from the faces of the people, the disgust on their faces past the point of politeness. He ran until the crowd parted in front of a huge mirror.

He stopped, frozen in horror at his own appearance. The makeup, so pristine on stage, had melted down his face, stripes of chalk white and lipstick like blood.

Sherlock woke, his lungs forgetting how to breathe for a moment. He raised his hands to his face, expecting to find cakey thick facepaint, but finding only smooth skin.

He rose and went into his study, trying to bring his heart rate back down to normal. Papers, maps, notes still overwhelmed the room, and he wandered around, touching books and notes as he passed.

_John was the only one arrested_ , he thought. _And he didn’t do it_.

_So who did_?

He took one of his pieces of origami paper, and wrote ‘BOMB’ on it. Then he pinned it to the map, where the hotel once stood.

**

His notes increased and spread beyond his personal living space and into the formal sitting room. He stopped seeing clients, and pinned a larger map over the divan. He thought of nothing but the cases, thought of no one but the murder victims, and the elusive person at the heart of it all.

At night, he was woken by dreams: of dancing with Commissioner Yun, of John offering him strawberries; of the Commissioner’s hands on his waist in an alley, of John’s body broken and covered in dust. Each time he would wake with a silent gasp, then rise, wash his face, and return to work.

“You’ve cancelled your appointments,” Mycroft said, disapproval dripping through the vidder screen.

“I was involved with a tragedy, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped without looking up from his work. “I could have been killed. My client was killed. They will understand.”

“It’s been three days. And you’ve cancelled well into the future. Aren’t you worried that-”

“No.”

In fact his clients had been dropping off his roster. Embarrassed calls had been coming in since the bombing. Sherlock wasn’t sure if they were leaving because they were afraid after the bombing, or because of the rumours swirling as a result of the dance. He didn’t care. He barely noticed, and buried himself deeper into the case.

Mycroft sighed. “It’s your choice, of course, _Xiándì_.”

“It is.”

“Do you need help?”

“What?”

“With the case?”

Sherlock could not disguise his confusion, and Mycroft sighed again. “I’m not without influence, you know. Through my role with the New Alliance, I could-”

“I’m fine, Mycroft. Near a breakthrough.”

“All right, but the offer stands.” Mycroft paused, and Sherlock saw him hesitate. “I must tell you, you’ve received a proposal.”

“I don’t want to take on any new clients right now.”

“A proposal for permanent Companion.”

“Really? It’s been a while, at least a month, since I last had such a-” Sherlock’s head jerked up. “Oh God. It’s not the Admiral, is it? Please Mycroft, not the Admiral, I couldn’t bear it.”

“No, it’s actually – it’s someone that isn’t on your roster. Not a present client.”

Sherlock’s brow knotted. “That’s odd.”

“It’s a… unique proposal. I don’t know the gentleman personally, but he’s new to Persephone and his references check out. I will forward it to you. Have a look, Sherlock – in your spare time of course.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sherlock said, already lost in another file. “ _Zài jiàn le_ , _rénxiōng.”_

“Zài-”

Sherlock disconnected and turned back to his notes.

**

He had compiled a list of all the attendees of the ball, eliminated the dead and severely injured. He needed copies of the witness interviews, possibly their contact information so he could interview them himself properly. While he was reluctant to bring the police into his investigations, there was no other way to contact witnesses. He scowled with impatience as he rang Lestrade’s vidder.

“Dimmock.”

Sherlock frowned at the screen; he’d dialled correctly, but instead of Lestrade’s tired face he saw a stranger, his face sharp with irritation.

“Where’s Lestrade?”

“Who’s asking?” Dimmock’s eyes flickered to his own screen, and his face shifted into something quite different. “Ah. The great Sherlock Holmes. I’ve heard about you.”

“Why are you answering Lestrade’s vidder?”

Dimmock sat back in his chair, radiating smugness. “He’s on leave.”

“Leave? What do you mean? He was working the bombing case.”

“No, I’m working the bombing case. I’m the lead, in fact. And Detective Lestrade came to us with a witness testimony that cleared our only suspect. When we questioned him about how he came to getting a witness testimony from the famous Sherlock Holmes, it came out that he’d been consulting with a Companion,” Dimmock sneered on the word, “on dozens of cases, without permission or notifying his superiors. Clearly bringing a civilian into New Alliance investigations is just slightly against the rules, so he’s on leave.” He smiled without mirth. “And what can I do for you?”

Sherlock disconnected hastily and pondered. This was an unexpected turn of events. Without Lestrade, he would have no way of accessing the New Alliance resources and information about the case. No matter – he had solved cases without the New Alliance many times before. He could solve it himself and simply –

The vidder sounded again. Sherlock wondered briefly if it might be John, now released from prison and wanting to talk about the case, but instead it was Tjinn’s face on the screen.

“Tjinn!” he said with relief. “Are you all right?”

Tjinn looked weary and unkempt, her hair loose around her face instead of elegantly pulled back. She was looking at him but turned slightly away from the screen. “I’m all right, Sherlock,” she said, her voice exhausted. “Are you? Were you hurt?”

“No, I wasn’t – I’m fine. I saw you, someone was carrying you…”

“My client got me out and to the hospital, but I-” Tjinn paused, and sighed. She turned her face towards the screen and pulled back the curtain of her hair to reveal a long, angry scar down the side of her lovely face.

“Tjinn,” Sherlock said heavily. He knew this meant the end of her career as a Companion; none of her talents and charms mattered if her face was marred. “Oh Tjinn. I’m so sorry.”

“It will heal but it will not disappear,” she said.

“Shall I come to see you? Perhaps I can… Where are you? Are you at the hospital?”

Tjinn let her hair fall back. “I’m at the Academy. I came directly here after they released me from the hospital. There wasn’t anyplace else I wanted to be. My life in Persephone City is over.” She hesitated, and she bit her lip. “Sherlock – there’s something else.”

Sherlock felt a low dread moving through his belly. “What is it?”

Her eyes welled up. “Oh Sherlock. I must pile sadness upon sadness. Inara is gone, gē ge. She died last night.”

A dull ringing filled Sherlock’s ears. His mouth opened but he was not able to form words.

“She was getting frail, you know. When I arrived I was shocked to see her, but you know how when she smiles the years just drop away? So I thought… but last night-”

“Did she-”Sherlock blurted out, “- Tjinn – did she die alone?”

Tjinn smiled sadly at him, even as the tears fell down her face. “No, Sherlock. I was with her, and a number of the others here. She died surrounded by people who love her, and she smiled as she slipped away. I promise you.”

Relief and grief battled for room in his body. “Good. I – good. Thank you.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, and Sherlock was suddenly aware of the distance between them.

“Be well, _gē ge ,” _Tjinn said at last.

“And you, _jiě jiě.”_

Sherlock disconnected and sat staring at the screen. The buzz in his ears grew louder and louder. He thought about calling Mrs. Hudson for fresh tea, then realized he wanted neither tea nor her chatty presence. He wanted to speak with one person, and one person only.

He leaned forward and punched in the numbers that he had memorized days earlier.

The vidder revealed a crumpled and dazed John, who rubbed his red eyes as he stared at the screen.

“…Sherlock?”

“John. I-” Sherlock stumbled momentarily, momentarily struck dumb at John’s haggard appearance. “I heard you were-”

“You’re all right?” John said, his voice hard and sharp.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“ _Cào_. I was in jail. I just walked in the door. I-”

“I know, I told Lestrade to-”

“A section of the ceiling collapsed.” John’s face was tight, his jaw clenching. “Right by the dance floor, right by where you… I couldn’t find you, and they wouldn’t tell me anything… I thought that…”

“Oh.” A dull rill of horror ran down his spine. The roof must have collapsed after he had been taken away by Mycroft’s people. He had left the hotel without thinking of what John would think of his absence. “I’m okay. I’m sorry, I left, I-”

A faint beep sounded from John’s panel, and John’s face collapsed even further. “Sherlock, I have to – that’s my boss, he – I’m sorry. I have to – I’ll talk to you later.” John disconnected abruptly.

Sherlock stared at the blank screen. He felt empty, hollowed out. No clients, no cases, and now –

Grief and frustration transmogrified into fury. He picked up the cold cup of tea beside him and threw it with a snarl at his map pinned to the wall. The cup was followed by a stack of papers, which fluttered against the wall and gave him no satisfaction. He threw books, pictures, plates. He saw Mrs. Hudson peer cautiously from the door, but she vanished when he pitched his tea set at the wall. He shouted every crude word he knew until his throat was sore.

His rage left him as quickly as it had come. He curled up on the divan, breathing heavily and gripping his hair painfully. He concentrated on his breathing, waiting for his rational mind to return.

His efforts were interrupted by a polite beep from his vidder. He leapt up, hoping it was John calling back, but was disappointed to find that it was a message from his brother. A glance at the screen told him it was the proposal Mycroft had spoken of.

Sherlock took a deep breath and pressed play.

The recording began, revealing a man of about Sherlock’s age, with dark hair and eyes. His smile was shy but his eyes bright.

“Hello Sherlock,” he said. His voice was lilting and husky at once. “I know we haven’t met, and I know this is unusual. But please allow me to introduce myself.”

Sherlock watched the whole recording, then watched it twice more.

Then he called Mycroft.

“I got the proposal, _rénxiōng_. Tell Mr. Moriarty I will meet with him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes  
> Shǎzi = idiot  
> Xiānshēng = Mister  
> Zài jiàn le = goodbye  
> Rénxiōng = my kind older brother  
> Gē ge = brother  
> Jiě jiě = sister  
> Cào = fuck


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock and Jim play a most interesting game of chess.

The airlimo pulled up to the portal of Moriarty’s skyhome, the water below glinting in the sunlight. A man in a plain black cotton gi opened the door. Sherlock stepped out and smoothed his clothes – a silken red and black hanfu with a phoenix carefully embroidered over the back. He had taken care with his appearance, even more so than usual. This was an important meeting.

Moriarty himself met him at the door, dressed neatly in a dark blue suit with a checkered waistcoat. “Sherlock Holmes. You honour me with your presence.”

Moriarty in person was much like the Moriarty in the proposal vidder, with a smile that was both inviting and shy, and eyes that were bright and wide as if something exciting was about to happen. His voice was soft but clear, and Sherlock strained to hear every note in the cadence of it.

Sherlock took his hand, bowing deeply over it. “ _Nǐnhǎo_ , Moriarty _Xiānshēng_.”

“Please, call me Jim. Come in, come in. I’m so glad you came.”

Jim led him to a sitting room. Sherlock noted the furniture – expensive but not ostentatious, and all quite new.

“Sit, sit, please. Let’s have tea, shall we?”

Sherlock sat in a large chair, whose twin sat opposite a small table. A servant came and placed a tea tray on the table, and Sherlock instinctively reached for it.

“Nonsense, Sherlock, you are my guest.” Jim nodded at the servant. “Thank you, Alphonse, that’s all for now.”

Jim picked up the iron kettle, pouring hot water over the cups and teapot to warm them. “To be honest, I was surprised you contacted me, that you even looked at my proposal. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you hadn’t – you don’t know me from Adam.”

“My brother told me that it was an unusual proposal – that whetted my interest. It is, admittedly, not what I was expecting.”

Jim’s hands were delicate as they handled the tea set, measuring out the hot liquid into cups. “I imagine you receive proposals for permanent companion all the time,” he said, smiling shyly.

“Well, yes. Frankly, if I don’t receive one a month, I worry that I’m losing my touch.”

“Had you ever considered one before?”

“No.” Sherlock accepted the tea cup with a slight bow. “To be honest, Mr. Moriarty-”

“Jim. Please.”

“Jim. To be honest, I love my career as a Companion. The variety of my life, the challenge of new clients. But I must admit that since the bombing, I’ve been re-evaluating everything.”

Jim shook his head, his face serious and sad. “I heard of the bombing. Shocking. So many lives lost.”

“And I could have been killed as well. A matter of moments only, and I would have been amongst the dead. So. One starts to evaluate what one wishes to do with the remaining years ahead, the years that suddenly are a gift.”

Jim nodded over the steam of the tea. “I have been doing the same – re-evaluating – though without the trauma of an event such as the bombing. How is the tea?” Jim took a sip, smiling into the cup.

Sherlock drank slowly. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s a natural oolong, grown on-”

Sherlock smiled to himself. “Highgate, in the Blue Sun system; yes, I heard about that. Marvellous.”

“I invested in the enterprise, early on.”

“A very wise investment. Jim, will you tell me? About your… re-evaluation. I want to know more about you, given the circumstances.”

“Of course. Understandable.” Jim set his cup with a tiny click onto the saucer and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. “As I said in my proposal, I’m a businessman. I’ve travelled all over, investing in enterprises of all sorts, big and small. I’m very fortunate that enough of those ventures have paid off well enough that I can do as I choose now.”

“Are you retiring?”

Jim smiled. “Oh no. Like you, I like my work far too much. But I’m in a position now to choose what projects to get involved in, the ones that interest me. I came to Persephone to pursue a deal, and rather liked it here, and decided to settle down. But,” Jim looked down at his hands bashfully, “- there’s no other way to say it but in this hackneyed way – I’m lonely. I’m generally a private person, I prefer a low profile. I tend to stay away from parties and balls. But even while I was alone, I would find myself thinking about having someone else to spend time with. You understand? But my work has not allowed me time to spend in one place long enough to establish connections. So. My friends said, get a Companion. More tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

Jim placed his teacup back on the tray. “I’ve had Companions before, of course. Very talented, very capable. But the satisfaction was only temporary, and merely – pardon me for being crude – sexual.”

“I understand.”

“What I realized I wanted was someone to stimulate my mind, not just my body.” Jim grinned shyly. “I hope you don’t mind if I boast for a moment, but I’m an intelligent man.”

“That’s obvious,” Sherlock said, mirroring Jim’s smile.

“What I want is to find someone to share my life with who is my equal in intelligence, in ingenuity, in curiosity. I’ve been looking all over the universe for someone like that, and I had just about given up. Then I saw you on the newsvidders about that case at the theatre.

“I thought to myself, ‘That’s a clever man, to solve that case. The New Alliance did well to recruit him.’ Then I heard you weren’t with the police, but rather a Companion, and I – well.” Jim ducked his head, blushing. “I thought long and hard, and then I started preparing my proposal.”

“I’m flattered,” said Sherlock. “But surely I’m not the only clever Companion you’ve come across.”

Jim looked up at Sherlock, his eyes serious and clear. “None like you,” Jim answered. “Even though we haven’t met until today, I felt a – a connection to you. There were just so many-” Jim paused, then stood. “Let me show you something? Please?”

Sherlock stood and followed Jim through the sitting room doors, deeper into the building.

“I started building this place even before I arrived on Persephone. I knew I wanted a skyhome, so I could be alone when I chose, and be social when I chose. But once I arrived, I started designing the interior to suit me, to suit my interests.” He stopped in front of a door. “This isn’t complete yet, but I’m hoping…”

Jim opened the door to reveal a large room, white and clean. Sherlock could see glass tubing, microscopes, and large scientific equipment, some with the plastic covering still on. He felt his eyes widen despite his efforts to remain blasé.

“Chemistry’s one of my hobbies – I think you enjoy it as well? I read that somewhere about you.”

Sherlock walked through the room, running his hands over the immaculate surfaces. “Yes. Since I was a boy.”

“Me as well. I’ve had this place built to my specification. That’s a neutron microscope over there, and – oh, this, this is the latest thing, an iso-betrometer. I invested in the inventor, and this is the first model.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said, and meant it.

“May I show you something else?” Jim led Sherlock out of the room and back down the hall. “This room is now complete, and I must confess it’s my favourite.” He paused slightly at the door, grinning like a magician about to reveal his trick. “I’m a bit old fashioned, but…”

He opened the door to reveal a huge room, cozy with carpets and wooden tables and comfortable chairs. Sherlock couldn’t help his jaw dropping at the sight – the room was lined from  floor to ceiling with shelves of books. Ladders arched up to allow access to the highest shelves. At the far side of the room, he could see a man sorting through a large pile of books; the man glanced at Jim and Sherlock, and discreetly left through a hidden door.

Sherlock inhaled the musty smell of the books as he ran his fingers along one row.

“There’s nothing like that smell, is there?” Jim said, his voice pitched low and quiet, as though the room demanded it. “I have a screenreader set up over there for newer books, but I’m very fond of the old format of reading. There’s a section here on history, and,” Jim crossed to another shelf, his excitement infectious, “here, here’s the science section – I’m very proud of this, look.”

“A first edition of Gray’s Anatomy,” Sherlock murmured. He realized his heart was beating faster, and forced himself to breathe slowly. “This is priceless.”

“Worth every penny,” Jim replied. “And I read it too. It’s not just on display, it’s meant to be read. All books are meant to be read.”

Sherlock walked around the room, his eye skittering over books he had only heard about or read on a screenreader. He stopped at a small table with a chess board on it, and chairs on either side.

“You play?” Jim said.

“Yes, but-”

“Ah, you’ve not seen a chess set like this, have you? All the pieces are the same colour.”

“There’s no shade differences between them? One set appears purple when wearing certain glasses, perhaps?”

Jim shook his head. “Exactly the same. It creates a new challenge when playing; you have to remember which are your pieces by memory, not by sight. Come on, try a game?”

Sherlock sank into the chair on the right, and Jim sat on the left. “White doesn’t go first here,” Jim grinned. “Go ahead.”

Sherlock began with a traditional opening move, advancing his pawn into the centre of the board. Jim mirrored the move with his own pawn.

“You like chemistry that much?” Sherlock asked. His bishop crossed the board. “Enough to set up a state of the art laboratory in your home?”

“I’m fascinated by it.” Jim moved his knight into play. “The idea of two distinct properties made into a whole new property by combining them together… that one combination will make something that harms, another will make something that is completely innocuous.”

“I set up a lab in my bedroom as a child,” Sherlock said. He took one of Jim’s pawns. “My parents never knew until I made a small explosion and broke a window.”

“Did they punish you?” Jim’s queen moved aggressively into Sherlock’s side of the board.

“I lost my vidder privileges for a week. And my eyebrows.”

Jim snorted a laugh, then hummed as Sherlock took his rook. “I was never allowed, outside of school. Now that I’m an adult, I may be overcompensating for that.”

“It will be a beautiful lab.”

“Check.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock moved his knight to protect his king. “You’ve mentioned investments. What intrigues you about an enterprise to make you want to invest?”

Jim doubled back with his queen. “At first, it was whatever would make the most money. Now, I invest less often, but the concept has to be innovative. Like the oolong.”

“Check.”

Jim tutted, and took the knight which had put his king in jeopardy.

“That’s my bishop,” said Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock. I took your bishop two moves ago.”

Sherlock considered the board and moved his rook. “Apologies. This set is a challenge.”

“And I know you love a challenge.”

Sherlock looked up to see Jim gazing at him, smiling slightly and a glint in his eye. “I do.”

“As do I. Checkmate.”

Sherlock stared at the board a moment, then knocked over his king. “A good game. Excellent.” He stood. “Thank you. I should go; thank you for meeting with me.”

“The honour is mine, Sherlock.”

Jim walked with him to the front door, where the airlimo was waiting. Sherlock called to the driver, “One moment please,” and pulled the door shut, giving them privacy.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Sherlock said.

“Yes?”

Sherlock stepped quickly into Jim’s personal space, his lips a breath away from Jim’s. He heard Jim inhale sharply, saw a flush spread across his cheeks.

“You’ve asked me to be your permanent Companion,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate in a way he had practiced for years. “I am the best Companion on Persephone. I am known throughout the quadrant for what I can do with my body, with my hands, with my mouth. My reputation is based in truth. Yet you’ve made a proposal without having,” Sherlock sighed, felt Jim echo it, “enjoyed my attentions. When I came out here to meet you, I thought you might want to… ensure that your investment would be worth your while. Yet you haven’t even touched me.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Jim murmured. Sherlock felt his breath hot against his lips. “I do not doubt your abilities. Not for a moment. I have no doubt that when we are together, we will be incandescent. For we’re the same, you and I. We were meant to be together. I believe that. I believe it so strongly that I’m willing to wait… for both your body, and your mind.”

He leant up and kissed Sherlock gently on the forehead. “Go,” he said softly. “Go, and think about me, Sherlock Holmes.”

**

Sherlock went home. He waited for three days. He cleaned up his work but did not review his notes again. He sat in his sitting room, his hands steepled in front of his lips, thinking and staring into the fire.

The vidder did not ring. No client called. Lestrade did not call. John did not call.

After three days, Sherlock turned to his vidder and punched in a number.

“Sherlock?” Jim’s face filled the vidder screen.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:  
> Nǐnhǎo = Hello (quite formal)  
> Xiānshēng = Mister
> 
> The chess game that Jim and Sherlock play is based on Yoko Ono's art piece, where all the pieces are white. Jim's set, of course, is all black.  
> https://www.economist.com/blogs/prospero/2016/01/qa


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock has agreed to become Jim Moriarty's personal Companion, not realizing he's changing history on Persephone. Mrs. Hudson does some cleaning up, and Sherlock adds another animal to his paper zoo.

The newsvidders went mad. It turned out that Tjinn was not the only Companion on Persephone to retire in the aftershocks of the bombing. Sherlock had not seen the breathless stories about ‘the end of the era of Companions’, but it turned out he was the last Companion on Persephone.

And now he was becoming the personal Companion to James Moriarty.

Mrs. Hudson did an admirable job keeping the media away. When Sherlock refused any interviews, a few enterprising reporters sent their newsbots directly to Sherlock’s home. Mrs. Hudson was polite but firm at first, and finally resorted to using a broom and some words that startled even the reporters who had been in the Miranda Wars.

Sherlock had told Jim he would come to him in a week. He put his case notes into a box and sealed it, but otherwise packed nothing. A few of his remaining clients called, no doubt asking for one final visit to say goodbye, but he didn’t answer. Eventually the calls stopped.

He found himself thinking constantly of the time Inara had held a cool cloth to his bruised face.

The day before he was to go to Jim, his vidder rang. The noise startled Sherlock; it hadn’t rung in several days. He answered without thinking.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said.

The John on his screen was vastly different from the one he last saw. He still looked tired, but the bone weary exhaustion was gone and he was grinning at Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock said, surprise lining his voice.

“Sherlock Holmes, I owe you a heapin’ pile of an apology,” John said. His expression became more solemn. “I was in a dreadful frame of mind when we last talked. The time in jail was not exactly conducive to sleepin’, and I ain’t afraid to admit I was in a terrible state there. Seein’ all that at the hotel kinda brought back the memories of the war, an’ thinking that you had… Well.

“Then after a few days some fella came to my cell and just said, ‘ _You’re free to go, get out’_ with no explainin’. I had just gotten home when you called, and then my boss called. Turns out it don’t matter whether you’re innocent of settin’ off a bomb or not, but being a suspect was enough and they didn’t care for my services any more. An’ apparently my landlord felt the same, so I had to move in with my sister, which is not what you might call fun. I’ve been skifflin’ ever since, trying to get work here and there, earn enough to get my ship and keep food in my mouth. But all of that ain’t excuses, ain’t excusable for speakin’ so short to you and not wavin’ you back. So. My apologies.”

Sherlock found it difficult to breathe, but said, “Accepted. Of course.”

John’s grin widened, and Sherlock felt a gray yawning in his gut. “ _Xièxiè_.”

“ _Bié kèqì_ ,” Sherlock said automatically.

“So.” John’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been humpin’ so much work this week I ain’t seen any news. Have they found the bomber? Once they figured out it wasn’t me, of course. Have you been working on the case?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I haven’t – I’m not working any cases. Not any more.”

John’s face clouded over. “No cases?”

“I don’t think – I won’t be working on cases any more.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’m-” Sherlock was having difficulty finding the words. “I’m becoming someone’s personal Companion and I don’t think – I think Jim wouldn’t want me working cases.”

John’s mouth had turned down, a crease had formed between his brows. “Personal Companion?”

“Yes. I-”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’m comin’ to you.”

John disconnected abruptly, leaving Sherlock staring at the blank screen.

**

Sherlock was sitting at his desk when the doorbell rang. “Come in,” he said.

John entered and strode up to Sherlock in his chair, his face lined and dark. “Explain this to me, please,” he said without preamble. “Personal Companion.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ve made a deal with someone to become their personal Companion – so I’m with them and no one else. I’ll be living with him.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Sherlock felt a hot ball form in his chest. “How is that your business?”

“I just thought-” John stopped and took a breath, his fists clenching and unclenching. “What did you mean - that he wouldn’t like you doing cases?”

“He’s a very private person, I think he’d prefer-”

“Since when have you cared about that? Cases are your life. I saw that. There’s a light inside you that – I just don’t understand, Sherlock.”

“He made me a proposal, I can – he’s offered me so much, and asked for so little in return.”

“So little? You-” John stood straighter, his jaw lifting up and out. “He’s offered money.”

“And more. But yes, money. A lot of it.”

“Right.” John reached into his shirt, to a hidden pocket, and pulled a wad of credit notes out. He placed it carefully on the desk in front of Sherlock. “There. I ain’t – this ain’t a – I ain’t buying you, dǒng ma? Just – you can give this to him and say, deal’s off.”

Sherlock stared at the pile of notes on his desk. They were wrinkled and worn, clearly not kept in a bank or a safe, but on John’s person, safe between his clothes and his skin. He knew if he touched the notes they would still be warm from John’s body heat. “John,” he said, “is this the money for your ship?”

“Yeah. Don’t be offended, okay, I just – I can’t bear the thought of – just. Please.”

John stood there, every muscle in his body taut and tense. Sherlock was finding it difficult to remember how to breathe. “I – John. This is – I can’t. We made an agreement. I sign the papers tomorrow.”

“Just tell him it’s off,” John said, his voice rising.

“I can’t. He’d lose face. I’d lose face. I can’t go back on an agreement, even a verbal one.”

“Since when do you care about your face? Just tell him-”

“And besides,” Sherlock said, his voice firming, his hand hovering over the credits on the table, “this isn’t even enough for me for a single night.”

John froze, his mouth hanging open.

After a long, horrible, silent moment, Sherlock pulled a piece of origami paper towards him and began to fold. “Do you remember why I do the origami, the animals?”

John swallowed, and gasped out, “Yeah, it’s to order your mind when-”

“-when a case is over.” Sherlock held up the paper, shaped as a tiny elephant. “It’s over, John. It’s all over.”

He placed the elephant on top of the credits, and slid them back towards John. “Go buy your ship, John Watson.”

John stared at the money, breathing hard. Then he nodded, once, jerkily, snatched up the credits and the paper elephant, and walked out.

Sherlock let out a long breath, feeling a little dizzy and sick. He became aware that Mrs. Hudson had entered quietly.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said softly. “He – oh, Sherlock.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson,” he said dully.

He felt the papery weight of her hands on his shoulders, and without thinking, reached up and patted her hand. “It’s all right,” he repeated. He sat up straighter. “Mrs. Hudson, I want you to have this place. The flat. It’s yours, all right?”

“Sherlock, that – that’s kind, but…” her voice went high and a little wobbly, “I don’t think I could live here without you, dear.”

“Then rent it out. You can live like a _huánghòu_ on the income.”

Her hands stroked over his shoulders, calming and hypnotic. “Sherlock dear, you go to Mr. Moriarty tomorrow. Don’t you think you ought to start packing?”

Sherlock looked all around his room – the divan, the chess set, the silken curtains. “Keep it all,” he said. “I don’t need to pack a thing. Jim’s giving me everything I ever wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xièxiè/ Bié kèqì = Thank you/you’re welcome (more literally, ‘no thanks is needed’) (quite formal)  
> Dong ma = understand?  
> Huánghòu = empress


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock starts his first day as Jim's personal Companion, puts on a show, and learns that a man's home is his castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, this is Jim we're talking about, so warnings for him being creepy and discussions of non-con.

Sherlock stepped out onto the outer balcony of Jim’s skyhome, letting the wind whip his hair around. The smooth expanse of water far below glinted in the sun. He tipped his face up to the light, and observed the newsvidder drones flying about. He felt as though he’d been surrounded, caged in by newsvidders for the last three hours – constantly flashing in his face, capturing images of him and Jim as they signed the contract, shook hands, smiled, smiled, smiled.

 _Not long now_ , he thought.

“Are they _still_ here?” Jim said from behind Sherlock as he came out to the balcony.

“They’re hoping to catch something salacious, I think.”

“Ugh. How tawdry.”

Jim’s hands slid around his waist from behind, and Sherlock felt the length of Jim’s body against his back. Jim nuzzled at the curls on the back of his neck. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he murmured. “That you’re finally mine.”

Sherlock forced his muscles from tensing, and allowed himself a breath. He placed his hands over Jim’s, interlocking their fingers tightly.

“Those drones are just visuals, they can’t pick up what we’re saying from there,” he said calmly. “We are alone. You can drop the act now, I think.”

Jim froze for a moment, then Sherlock felt his spreading grin against his neck. “Good boy, Sherlock,” he said, his voice dropping in pitch, becoming more singsong. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d actually fooled you. When?”

“When what?” He kept his voice crisp and clear, the final T sharp and supercilious.

Jim jerked back with his hands against Sherlock’s diaphragm, forcing the air from Sherlock’s lungs in a gasp he couldn’t suppress. “Don’t be coy.”

“Careful, Jim. The drones can’t hear us but they can see us, remember. They’re live to air too; there’s probably millions watching right now. This is a big event, you know – the last Companion, giving himself away. You don’t want to be shown on live newsvidder abusing your brand new personal Companion, do you?”

Jim’s hands gentled but stayed firmly around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock kept his grip on Jim’s hands, each of them entrapping the other. “All right, Sherlock,” he said. “The curtain is still up – for now. But do tell.”

Sherlock kept his face towards the water, towards the skyline of Persephone City, away from Jim, even as Jim’s breath puffed hot in his ear. “I knew for a long time that there was a single source of many of the crimes on Persephone; the spider in the centre of the web. That there was one relatively intelligent guiding hand behind the criminals who were intellectually barely above pillow drool. The question became who – who was the guiding hand, who was the spider.”

Jim nodded. “ _’Relatively intelligent’_. Why, thank you.”

“I will admit that the answer to that question – who – eluded me for far too long. When your proposal came in, I could tell you had a secret, but I couldn’t tell quite what it was. So I asked to see you in person. I realized it was you at our meeting last week.”

“How, pray tell? I’m anxious to hear.” Jim’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Natural oolong.”

“Beg pardon?” Jim sounded slightly confused, and Sherlock relished this tiny victory.

“You served me tea, and told me it was natural oolong, the tea grown naturally on Highgate. And suddenly all the pieces fell together. All the cases in the spider’s web had to do with something false masquerading as the real thing, while you took the real thing for yourself. Gold in dental work instead of synthetic. Fake stultorumite painted to look like amniculusite. The jealous lover, the false Romeo poisoning the real one. And then I realized that I was sitting in front of the false Jim Moriarty-”

“And I am the real one. Excellent, Sherlock.” Jim hugged him closer. Sherlock fought against the urge to shudder. “I’m so proud of you, my boy.”

“What I don’t understand is why you sent me the proposal. You could have stayed under the radar, hidden from view. Were you taunting me? Seeing if you could fool me again?”

“Well, a bit, yes. But initially I just wanted to kill you.”

Sherlock could feel his heart racing, but controlled his breathing. “I see. The bomb.”

“Yes, darling, the bomb at the Ball was for you. You were getting closer than anyone else, thwarting my enterprises. It was annoying. So I thought it would be a simple thing – of course you were going to be at the Ball, so I had an explosive placed under the buffet table. Waste of good strawberries, really, a pity.”

“But I wasn’t there. I left.”

“Yes,” Jim hissed, directly into Sherlock’s ear, his arms tightening vice-like around Sherlock’s waist. “ _You left_.”

Sherlock raised his arm and waved lazily at the drones as if saying ‘hello’, and the drones swooped closer in response. “Careful, Jim. They’re still there.”

Sherlock felt Jim straighten and calm himself, but kept his arms locked around Sherlock’s waist. “Why won’t they go?” he said petulantly.

“Oh, they’re hoping to see us consummate the agreement. Makes for good vid. So. Why this approach?”

“Well, you dead would have been fine, but then when you survived, I thought this would be much more fun. Having you here.”

“What do you mean?”

Jim’s hand began to rub Sherlock’s belly in hypnotic circles. “Come on, Sherlock. Best Companion on Persephone? Gorgeous and intelligent to boot? Why kill you when I could just make you mine?”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “I see. So you cut off my clients, my cases; made it so I had nowhere else to turn.”

“Just so. Though your John Watson nearly threw a wrench in the works yesterday. What a knight in shining armour he is.”

Sherlock couldn’t help his jaw tightening with anger. “Ah yes. And exactly when did you bug my home?”

Jim chuckled, high and eerie, in a way that vibrated down Sherlock’s spine. “What makes you think I did that?”

“The Gray’s Anatomy book. When it came up for sale I mentioned it to Mrs. Hudson, thinking to buy it, but I never said that to any newsvidder. My interest in chemistry is well known, but I’ve never publicly mentioned my fascination for human anatomy. When I saw the book, and the way in which you drew my attention to it, made me realize that you’d been listening in.”

“Of course. Ages ago. A man’s home is his castle, hmm?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. “The chess set. You had a bug in my chess set. In the rook.”

“That’s right. The Admiral didn’t want to give it to you, but I convinced him it was the perfect gift. It only captures the audio, but that’s enough. So. Who’s John Watson?” Jim’s voice turned steely.

Sherlock swallowed and shrugged. “No one. Nobody. He helped me on a case or two. Clearly he became obsessed with me. Annoying.” He was pleased that he kept his voice calm and even.

“Think he’ll stay away, after what you said to him? Well, never mind, he won’t get to you here. My security will keep him out. In fact, they can keep everyone out. And they’ll keep you in.”

“Meaning?”

Jim’s hands began to stroke up and down Sherlock’s hips and flanks. “You’re mine now, Sherlock, dear. And I’m a private man, I told you. And I’m possessive of my things.”

Now Sherlock couldn’t keep from shuddering. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can and I will. This is a skyhome, stupid. There’s no way to leave without an airtaxi, which of course would not be allowed anywhere near without my express permission. Every door and vidderscreen needs fingerprint ident to get access, and you won’t get that. And I’ve got security all over – you thought they were just servants, butlers? Nope. Highly trained former New Alliance soldiers. If they find you near a door or a vidder, they have my permission to hog-tie you.”

“So I’m a prisoner, then.”

“Yes, dear.” Jim’s fingers rubbed along the crests of his hipbones, stroking deep and deeper into the angles of Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock swallowed back his nausea. “But isn’t it a lovely cage I built for you? I was telling the truth before, you know. I really do admire your mind. And now that belongs to me too. We can work together now. Picture it – us working side by side in that beautiful laboratory – it’s finished now, by the way – and creating the most amazing poisons. We’ll look at maps and blueprints in the library and devise the best way to break into banks.”

“You’re mad. I won’t do that. You can’t make me.”

“You’re mine, remember? Body and mind. You signed the contract. And if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll just take away all your food and drink until you beg me to let you help. Or better yet, I’ll bend you over the most handy piece of furniture and fuck you until you feel more cooperative. Mind and body. You’re mine.”

“I-”

Jim started kissing along Sherlock’s neck as his hands stroked, stroked. “What I don’t understand, Sherlock, is if you had figured out who I was, why did you come to me anyway?”

Sherlock was having more difficulty controlling his urge to punch, kick, jerk away. “As you say, I had nowhere left to go.”

“No, I think it’s more than that.” Jim yanked down Sherlock’s collar and kissed wetly down his neck and shoulder. “Wave again for the vidders, sweetheart. Perhaps we will give them a show after all. No, I think you fully expected to come up here, get me to confess all my crimes, and then go running to your brother or the police, perhaps bring them - this.”

Jim’s hand flashed down Sherlock’s collar and pulled off a tiny recording device taped to the wing of his shoulder blade.

“That – I-” Sherlock said, his voice failing.

“Perhaps I’ve overestimated you after all, my dear,” Jim said as he studied the bug. “Perhaps you are as stupid as everyone else.” He dropped the tiny recorder and crushed it underfoot. “Ah well, there’s still your body. I’ll just enjoy fucking you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled out of the circle of Jim’s arms. He turned to face Jim, who was grinning widely.

“No,” Sherlock said.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Come on now. I don’t feel like performing for the vidders, we’ll go inside and-”

“I said _no_.”

Jim smiled slightly, and Sherlock could see the madness glittering in his eyes. “Do I still have to explain it to you? You’re mine.”

Sherlock stood straight and tall. “I am a Companion, and it is my choice. And I choose no.”

“What choice do you think you have?” Jim sneered.

Without hesitation, Sherlock crossed to the balcony edge and stepped onto it. The wind whipped harder at his hair, at his clothes. “This.”

Jim smiled, but there was a hitch in his smile. “Don’t be a fool, Sherlock.”

“Nice show for the vidders, don’t you think, Jim? The last Companion jumps to his death less than an hour after being with Jim Moriarty?”

Jim went ghastly pale. “Sherlock-”

“Goodbye, Jim.”

Sherlock turned to face the horizon, towards the city. He stretched his arms out and let himself sway forward. He heard Jim scream his name, felt a tiny tug on his robe as Jim tried to grab it, then the pull of gravity took hold of him and he fell.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock breathes in a new way, and wonders if he's just delayed the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this week!

Hitting the water hurt considerably more than Sherlock had anticipated. He had been able to twist his body around so he hit the water feet first rather than flat out – if he had landed like that, he was sure he would break several bones. As it was, the impact was not as bad as it could have been, but it still hurt. He shot beneath the surface of the water in a cluster of bubbles. For a moment he was disoriented, not sure which was the way to the surface. Then he saw the bubbles rising, and followed them.

He broke the surface with a gasp - partly for show but more real than he wanted to admit to himself. He flailed in the water, taking a moment to notice that the newsvidder drones had followed him down. He reached out to the closest one, as if asking it to help him, then let himself sink back down into the water.

From between his legs he pulled a breather tube, wincing as the tape ripped at the delicate skin, and put the tube in his mouth. _Thank God Moriarty didn’t get that far_ , Sherlock thought as he took a shallow breath to initiate the tube’s mechanism, then dove deeper. He kicked off his shoes. Careful not to allow even a foot to break the surface of the water, he swam towards the docks, away from Jim’s skyhome.

Jim had no doubt called for a rescue team even before Sherlock hit the water; he knew he had to get as far away from the place as he could. With the breather, he could at least get well out of sight before surfacing and checking his location.

He swam underwater for some time, enjoying the pure silence around him. He was a strong swimmer, and the water was not too cold. Sunlight leaked through the surface, creating long, narrow curtains of light.

He should have known it couldn’t be that easy.

Suddenly his mouth was full of water. He gagged, and rose inelegantly to the surface. Despite his shock, he was able to look around and ascertain that none of the drones had followed him, and he was a fair distance from the skyhome. He could see the drones buzzing around the surface at the base of the skyhome, and poli-copters flying towards them from Edgewater. None of them noticed him. He nodded with satisfaction, and turned his attention to his breather.

A long, jagged crack marred the long edge of the tube. Sherlock’s mouth twisted in frustration. It must have developed a small crack upon his impact in the water. He sighed and threw it away, watching it sink. No matter; he could swim on the surface now, and aim for an unobtrusive dock at Eavesdown.

He swam and swam until he lost all sense of time. His limbs were feeling heavier, and his silken robes were dragging him down. He tried to get out of the robes, but the knotted ties gripped hard and would not loosen. He swam on.

The sun was starting to set, and Eavesdown was taunting him, getting no closer no matter how hard he swam. If he didn’t reach the docks by nightfall, he wouldn’t be able to position himself; unobtrusive docks were unobtrusive because they were not well lit.

With every stroke, he tried to push his panic farther down, but it kept surfacing.

_You’re going to die after all_ , he found himself thinking. _Faking it for Jim only prolonged it. Stupid. Stupid._

He was startled when he got a mouthful of water. Gagging, floundering, coughing, he fought against his exhaustion, but couldn’t stop imagining his lungs filling with water and pulling him down.

And then he was sinking, falling under the water. He was too tired to fight the water, too tired to try any more.   _Just relax_ , he thought, _just sleep_.

Then suddenly he was being pulled up again. Something had hold of his robe and was pulling him up.

He resurfaced, spluttering and gasping.

“You’re a ruttin’ idiot,” John said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: John loans something to Sherlock, and introduces him to someone; Sherlock takes a detour, and allows himself to be seen.

“You’re all right, you’re all right,” John said as Sherlock spluttered and coughed. “ _Nĭ năozi yŏu bìng_. I knew to wait for you but I thought you’d pull up in a fancy skimmer or somethin’. Didn’t think you’d try to swim, _shăgua_.”

“How-”

“Shut up. I saw you in the water and saw you were startin’ to struggle. Now, just rest for a bit, all right? Lie back.”

John pulled him into a float, with John behind and underneath him. Sherlock leaned back, his head resting on John’s collarbone, and allowed his breath to even out, his heart to stop hammering. John maintained a constant stream of alternating reassurances and insults as he treaded water, keeping them both afloat.

“All right,” Sherlock said after a few moments.

“Sure?”

“ _Shì_.”

“Not far now.”

Sherlock looked up and saw that John was right, the docks were not far off at all. Either his mind had been deceiving him as he swam, or they had drifted closer while Sherlock rested.

They swam side by side towards the dark of Edgedown, and although Sherlock was still tired, his limbs sluggish and slow, he knew now he would make it to the docks. He felt as if he was borrowing movement and energy from John, matching him stroke for stroke.

Despite his exhaustion, Sherlock noted John’s odd swimming style, his arms going straight out in front and then pushing to the sides, as opposed to Sherlock’s more traditional crawl.

“Need a rest?” John said.

Rather than admit he did, Sherlock said, “Why do you swim like that?”

“Oh, that’s the traditional Regina stroke. Thought you’d know that, genius. There’s so much pollution in the water, you have to swim like that to keep the _gǒushǐ _ out of your face.”

John grinned, and Sherlock grinned weakly back.

Then the sheer wall of the Edgedown Dock was rising up in front of him. John splashed along until he found a rusted ladder reaching from the water up to the top. John held onto a rung with one hand and reached out to Sherlock. “Up you go,” he said, his heaving chest betraying his own exertion.

Sherlock grabbed at the rungs and pulled up, but as his body came out of the water, his clothes and skin took on weight. He briefly imagined the ladder snapping under his tonnage of water and silk. His exhaustion swept back, doubled and redoubled.

“I can’t,” he said, sagging back down.

“You can and you will,” John said.

“I – I can’t, I’m-”

Suddenly John was in his face, stern and nearly angry. “You are Sherlock Bloody Holmes, Companion of Persephone, and you will climb this ladder _now_!”

Sherlock’s foot was instantly on the rung, and he was pulling himself up. He felt John pushing at him, first at his shoulder, then his waist, then under his arse, then Sherlock was rolling onto the hard and filthy bricks. John was soon beside him, dripping water into the puddle already created by Sherlock. John staggered to his feet and shook himself like a dog. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared down an alleyway.

Sherlock pressed his palms into the ground, trying to push himself upright, but then decided it would be better to simply to wait for John to return. He was just starting to shiver when John reappeared a moment later, hopping slightly as he jammed his boots on. “Thank God they were still there,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t shoes for you - again, didn’t know you were swimmin’.” Quickly he pulled Sherlock to his feet, unfolded a rough wool blanket and threw it around Sherlock’s shoulders, drawing it up to cover his wet head. “That should keep you a bit warmer, and maybe you won’t stand out quite so much. Now come on.”

John’s arm was strong and firm around Sherlock’s waist as he guided him through the labyrinth of the Docks area. Despite the blanket, Sherlock shivered harder. The ground was rough under his bare feet, but John kept propelling him forward.

“Not far, not far,” John murmured.

Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly full of fluid, and he stumbled.  John steadied him but Sherlock altered their course, aiming for another side alley.

“Sherlock, we can’t-” John hissed, “We have to keep going, we have to - oh.”

John stopped fighting him and helped him to a wall, then supported him as Sherlock vomited what felt like half the Persephone Sea onto a pile of garbage. Sherlock wiped his mouth and streaming eyes with a corner of the blanket and nodded. “Okay,” he said, his voice rough. “Okay.”

Despite being shaky from vomiting, Sherlock now felt somewhat better; he had no idea he had swallowed so much water. He found he was better able to keep up with John, and needed to lean on him less.

They moved past the maze of shipping containers into the ship docks, weaving their way through the crowds of people, hovercarts, cows and horses. No one took much notice of Sherlock, with the blanket hiding most of his face and obscuring his sodden but still clearly elaborate clothes; most people had their heads down and rarely made eye contact.

“Not far, not far,” John said again.

He led them deftly between ships large and small. “I left her at one of the out-of-the-way ports - a little more private. Most of these ships are tryin’ to be seen, tryin’ to get cargo or passengers. I figured that wasn’t our aim.”

Sherlock knew which was John’s ship even before John led him to it; a small, compact vessel with a snub nose and wings that arched back and down. It was old, and far from the latest technology, and its paint was scuffed and dirty, but it was rust free and wouldn’t fall apart in the air. John entered a code into a keypad, and a hatch opened beneath one wing with a hissing yawn.

“Welcome to _The Baker_ ,” John said. “Come on.”

“You named it _The Baker_?”

“Naw, that was the name she came with,” John said as he led him in a half jog up the ramp. “Didn’t have time to think of a new one and paint ‘em on.”

“No, I like it,” Sherlock said. He was so tired he felt as though he was floating. “ _The Baker_. Yes.”

John ran slightly ahead of him into the main part of the ship, jamming his palm onto a large green button to close the hatch. “Come on, we’d better hightail it.”

Sherlock unsteadily followed John into the front of the ship, into what was clearly the cockpit. There were two chairs, one for the pilot, with a dashboard filled with switches and screens, and the flight controls. He collapsed into the other chair as John slid into the pilot’s chair, already flipping switches and pressing buttons before he had fully taken his seat. Sherlock could feel power leap up in the body of the ship, buzzing through the floor and his bare feet.

John took the controls in both hands and pulled them towards him slightly, and the ship responded by ascending. Sherlock felt gravity pressing him down into the chair, and he gripped the panel in front of him instinctively.

“I won’t floor it unless I actually see someone after us,” John said. “Tryin’ to be as subtle as possible.”

“All right.”

“After we hit atmo, I’ll gun it, get some distance.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, though he didn’t really understand what John meant.

As they rose, Sherlock stared at the windows, at the sight of Edgedown Docks getting smaller and smaller. Soon all of Persephone City was laid out before him, and he could see the bustle of the people of the city transforming into toys, then ants, then specks of dust.

“Hailing StarJumper class cargo ship Baker,” said a voice from a speaker.

Sherlock and John stared at each other. It was clear from John’s face that this was not normal procedure for taking off; and Sherlock knew his eyes were as wide as John’s. “What do we-”

“Hailing cargo ship Baker, urgent,” said the voice. “Captain Watson, please respond immediately.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the voice as he recognized it. He growled to John, “Don’t answer.”

“Sherlock-”

“Captain Watson, please respond immediately. If you do not respond I will send five New Alliance cruisers to pursue you, and they can outrun you, have no doubt.”

John shot a helpless look at Sherlock, and picked up a microphone with one hand while gripping the wheel with the other. “Cargo class ship Baker, Captain Watson here,” he said, his voice marvellously casual. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I need to speak with your passenger, Captain Watson.”

“I ain’t precisely sure who you’re-”

“Is it a secure frequency?” Sherlock said.

John took his thumb off the speaker button. “What?”

“Ask him if it’s a secure frequency.”

John blinked at him, and shook his head incredulously. He pressed the button on the radio, and without taking his eyes from Sherlock’s, said, “Please confirm if this frequency is secure.”

“Confirmed,” said the voice.

John released the button. “You sure?” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’d rather not but it’s probably for the best. How do I-”

“That’s the communication panel you’re sittin’ at,” John said, indicating the screen in front of Sherlock. “Press that black button – no, the one right next to the screen.”

“Keep flying,” Sherlock said, and pressed the button. The screen flared into life.

“ _Rénxiōng_ ,” Sherlock said tersely.

“ _Xiándì_ ,” Mycroft said.

“ _Wǒ de tiān a_ , there's _two_ of you?" John said. 

Mycroft clearly heard John’s comment and frowned, then his face cleared to blandness. “You have finally succeeded in astonishing me, brother. It’s all over the newsvidders. Millions saw your fall live. The search continues, with the entire populace roiling in hysterical worry. The search authorities are refusing to admit that because your body has not been found, this is likely a recovery mission, not a rescue any more. Persephone mourns. I hope you’re happy.”

Sherlock ignored this. “Did you receive my transmission?”

“Yes. I did, though it cut off when you entered the water.” Mycroft’s expression faltered. “I was… distressed to hear the… you put yourself at considerable risk to ensure the evidence against Moriarty was captured. I rather wish you’d mentioned something of your suspicions to me in advance, I could have-”

“Taken over the whole enterprise and nòng luàn,” Sherlock replied. He reached up and ran his hand through his hair, and pulled out a tiny wire, indistinguishable from his curls. “Moriarty found the first device, as I knew he would; fortunately it didn’t occur to him I’d have a second device planted. So you got everything?”

“Yes. The authorities have already been alerted, and Moriarty will doubtless be in custody within the hour. You may safely return now.”

Sherlock saw John flinch from the corner of his eye. He sat up straighter. “No.”

Mycroft’s face changed into the expression he knew so well – exasperated and impatient. “Didn’t you hear me? Moriarty is finished.”

“He’s not in custody yet. And I think you underestimate the extent of his authority and power. I don’t believe he would remain in custody for long. Even if he does stay in prison, he would likely continue to exercise his considerable influence outside the walls.  All of Persephone, including Moriarty, thinks I am dead – that is my safety.”

“You will be protected, Sherlock, be assured. As will Captain Watson, if that is your concern.” Mycroft raised his voice slightly. “Captain Watson, return your ship to the Docks, if you please.”

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock,” John said.

“No. Mycroft, listen to me. My life on Persephone is over. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” Mycroft snapped. “You’re throwing everything away, everything you’ve worked for-”

“Sherlock,” John said. His arms were rigid with tension as they held the controls, his face equally tense. “We’re breakin’ atmo in ‘bout two minutes, I’ll lose his signal, I can’t turn around after-”

“Keep going.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft said. “You will be safe, I promise you, I can-”

“I don’t want to be _safe_ , Mycroft!” Sherlock said. “I want – I want-” He leaned in close to the screen. “Can you see me? Can you see my face clearly?”

“Yes, but-”

“Look at me, Mycroft. Deduce me.”

“Deduce-?”

“Please.”

Mycroft sighed and studied him through the screen, across great distance, with Sherlock’s face only inches from the screen.

“Sherlock,” John growled, “’bout sixty seconds.”

Then Mycroft sat back, his face a miasma of emotions – disbelief, shock, and a tiny touch of gladness. “I see, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “I see. Oh, Sherlock.”

“Please, Mycroft,” Sherlock repeated softly, in counterpoint to his muscles that were twitching with tension. “This is what I want. Let me go.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched in a small smile. “All right, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice gentler than he had ever heard it. “What – what shall I tell Mummy?”

“Whatever you like,” Sherlock said. “But - would you – you could tell Mrs. Hudson the truth. Tell her I’m alive. I – I wouldn’t want her to mourn. She’ll keep the secret, don’t worry.”

“All right,” Mycroft said. He smiled, and Sherlock tried to think of the last time he had seen his brother’s genuine smile.

John called out, “Sherlock, we’re breaking atmo – we’re gonna lose him-”

“Goodbye, _Xiándì_ ,” said Mycroft.

Then the screen shuddered and went blank, the ship’s flight smoothed, daylight winked out, and stars spread out before the windows, more stars than Sherlock had ever seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nĭ năozi yŏu bìng = You’re fucked in the head  
> shăgua = dumbass  
> Shì = Yes  
> gǒushǐ = shit  
> Xiándì = my virtuous younger brother  
> Rénxiōng = my kind older brother  
> Wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God  
> nòng luàn = messed up
> 
> The story about the ‘Regina stroke’ is actually something I heard from Harpo Marx, about learning to swim in the Hudson River.
> 
> Much thanks to Mr. Standbygo, who offered advice on ships and how they’d be hailed. He also drew some pictures of The Baker for me, which I will post as soon as I figure out how.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: Sherlock fixes something for John, plays with knives, and learns something new.

Sherlock could not take his eyes off the stars. They spread out across the windows of the cockpit like a cold blanket across his entire field of vision. He had known they were there, of course; glimpsed as he left a party or a play, adding to the ambiance of an evening with a client. But this - this was like the difference between reading about a chemical reaction and seeing it in front of him. It was real, it was before him, it surrounded him. He now understood why Inara called it ‘The Black’, why she had been drawn to it, why she had spoken wistfully of it in her old age.

He had no idea how much time had passed. He was pressed into his chair, pinned into place by the enormity of space around him.

John cleared his throat discreetly beside him. Sherlock looked up, and saw that John had stepped away from the pilot’s seat.

“Don’t think we’re being followed, ain’t a blip that I can see.”

“Good.”

He returned his gaze to the windows, and John stood quietly, looking out at the starfield as well.

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said.

“ _Shì_ ,” John said. “Once you’ve seen it, you can’t believe you lived proper without it.”

They were quiet for a while.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Sherlock said softly.

John was silent for a long moment, and Sherlock wondered if he was going to respond at all.

“I understand why you did,” John said at last.

“He bugged my home. I couldn’t - he was listening. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you-” John stopped, and looked down at his feet, clearing his throat again and again. “You said you were going to him, and I thought – and then your note – thank God I found your note.”

He waved his hand towards the pilot’s station, to a piece of paper held down by a pebble. John pulled the paper out and handed it to Sherlock. It was full of folds and sharp creases, but Sherlock saw his own handwriting there:

               It’s all a lie. Don’t believe what you see and hear.  
               Wait for me at the Edgedown Docks by the water.

“I was so angry, at first, then I saw that there was writing, and – can you refold it? I tried but-”

Sherlock’s fingers were already folding the paper back into its original shape of the tiny elephant. His hands were shaking. “So you came and – thank you.”

“Of course,” John said. He smiled up at Sherlock, small but bright. “Of course I would come. If you needed me, I’d – of course.”

Silence fell again, both of them staring out at the stars.

“I’ve set a course for Ariel,” John said.

“Okay. Good,” Sherlock said absently.

“Should be about a week gettin’ there.”

“Fine.”

“What did you mean?” John burst out.

“What?”

John nodded at the communication screen, now dark. “That man, your – brother?”

“Yes?”

“What did you mean when you said, ‘Deduce me’? and – what did he see?”

Sherlock turned his attention away from the stars to face John. “You don’t know?”

John shook his head, his brows knotting. “No.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped a little. “ _Wǒ de tiān a_ ,” he said. “You don’t know, and you came for me anyway. My God.”

John looked confused.

Sherlock stood, the wool blanket falling around his shoulders. “I love you,” he said. “I can’t go back because – I love you. He – Mycroft – could see that. Didn’t you – didn’t you know?”

John’s face was pale, and shocked. He shook his head slowly, as though dazed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

“I do,” Sherlock said, “I do, but-” Suddenly fear and doubt gripped him, like a fist around his heart. Had he misunderstood everything? Had he placed John in terrible danger and risk because he’d gotten it wrong? “Don’t you – do you-” Sherlock’s breath was coming low and shallow. He couldn’t shake himself of the fear that he was wrong, that he’d made a mistake. “Do you – do you love me, John?”

“Yeah,” John said in a long gasp. “Yeah. I do.”

They stared at each other across the room for a long moment. Then John grinned, shy with an edge of mischief, and scratched the back of his neck.

“Must admit, I ain’t never fell in love with someone I ain’t kissed before.”

Sherlock felt a smile burst with relief across his face, stretching his face wide. “Mustn’t have that,” he said, and stepped in closer to John.

But John did not kiss him, not yet. Instead he reached out and touched Sherlock on the shoulder, feather-light. Then on his arm, near the elbow. His sternum. Then his hair, so softly that his curls barely moved. The edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, his eyebrows bending under John’s touch. Sherlock drank in these little touches, drank in the look of wonder on his face. Then John’s fingertips traced around Sherlock’s lip, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

John’s lips brushed his, dry and soft and quiet, more a tickle than a kiss. Then another, more firm, and another. Sherlock’s breath shuddered.

“I tried to say, before,” John whispered against his mouth, his breath warm. “After we danced, I tried to say – you’re the most amazin’ man I ever met.”

“And you fascinate me,” Sherlock said. “From the moment I met you, you have fascinated me.”

He leaned in and deepened the kiss, pouring everything he had ever learned about kissing through his mouth and lips and tongue. In his next breath, however, he pulled back and stared at John. He came to the sudden realization that he had started to kiss John as a client, using his art instead of his heart, and that wasn’t right.

John gazed up at him, a slight smile on his face and his eyes bright. “S’alright,” he said, and Sherlock marvelled how John understood. “S’alright. Just you, _dǒng ma_? Just you and me.”

“ _Dǒng ma_ ,” Sherlock said, his heart lighter than it had ever been.

John kissed him again, taking control, and Sherlock felt something shift inside him. He kissed back, feeling absolute passion rush through his muscles and nerve endings, pouring up and out into John, only to be met with a flood of passion coming back from him. The passion lifted and became joy.

He felt himself hardening, felt John hardening with every sigh and groan.

“Can we – can we-” he gasped.

“Yeah,” John said as he kissed Sherlock’s neck; deep, wet kisses that were making Sherlock’s legs wobble. “Yeah. Come to my bunk. Please.”

“Will the ship…?”

John took his hand as he waved absently towards the controls. “She’s fine. She’s fine. Will you? Come on, _qíngrén_.”

Sherlock followed John, admiring the way his shoulders moved beneath the thick cotton of his shirt. John led them out of the cockpit, through the engine room and the cargo area, directing him through a narrow trail of crates and tools lying throughout the ship. Finally they came to a niche built into the side of the ship’s tail. A double bed, neatly made, lay underneath a strip of window, revealing the slide of stars outside.

“Is it – is it all right?” John said, looking uncomfortable.

It was impossible, it was wrong for John to be uneasy showing Sherlock his bunk, so Sherlock showed him how all right it was by tumbling them both into it.

Hands, lips, tongues aided their exploration of each other. After so long of only seeing, touching was like drinking water after a long drought. The more Sherlock touched, the more he wanted of John’s skin and mouth and hair. He had never felt like this with a client; this was something new, something he didn’t realize he wanted until now.

Sherlock impatiently pushed John’s braces off his shoulders and away, and unbuttoned his shirt, kissing and licking as he went. When John’s shoulder was uncovered to reveal a large web of scarred flesh, John abruptly looked embarrassed, his hand flicking up as though to cover it.

“No,” Sherlock said as he batted John’s hand away. “It’s part of you, so it’s beautiful, you see? _Měilì_ , all of you.”

He kissed the scar softly and slowly, hoping John would absorb through his marred skin everything that Sherlock was feeling. John’s hands carded through his hair, and Sherlock looked up at John to see blue eyes filled with love and desire.

“Let me touch you, please,” John said. His hands smoothed over Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, over the still wet silken robes he wore. “ _Gǒushǐ_ , your clothes are still wet,” John said, half growling and half laughing. “Should have gotten you out of these clothes sooner.”

“Much, much sooner.”

Two sets of hands grappled at the closure at Sherlock’s throat, but the water of the Persephone Sea had tightened the material in its silken knot. Sherlock yanked at it uselessly, growling with frustration. “I can’t – I-”

Then Sherlock remembered the crates they had passed, full of equipment John had not yet unpacked. He wrenched himself from the bed and ran to them, running his hands through them until he found what he wanted.

“Sherlock!”

The knife was sharp and cut through the closures of Sherlock’s robe easily. With each knot, weight lifted off his body, and when the ruined robe finally fell at his feet he felt freer than he had ever felt before.

“ _Nĭ năozi yŏu bìng_ , you crazy man, you’re insane,” John said, laughing and shaking his head. He ran to Sherlock and pulled him into his arms and back towards the bed. “We could have – _shăgua _ – you madman you.”

“Please – please-” was all Sherlock could say in return. His hands spoke for him, stripping the last of John’s clothes off.

John’s body was littered with scars large and small, and freckles, and fine blonde hair on his legs and chest and groin. His cock jutted out, hard and flushed with blood. Sherlock felt a throb between his own legs, and then John touched him and he groaned.

They lay down side by side, chest to chest. The only space they allowed between them was the space to hold each other’s cocks, already dripping. John wiped at the head, making Sherlock tremble, spreading the liquid over Sherlock’s cock, until it was slick. Sherlock licked his own palm thickly until the slide of his hand over John was smooth.

“Oh God, shit, _cào_ , Sherlock,” John panted, and sped his own hand over Sherlock.

Sherlock was dimly aware of saying “Please” over and over again. He was drowning in John’s hand, his skin, his smell, his eyes, and he never wanted the drowning to end. All sensation was narrowing down, focusing on John’s hand on his cock, and then he felt himself shaking apart, all his awareness vanishing into a white haze. He could hear John shouting as if from far away, and felt a warm spatter on his belly, mingling with his own come.

He came back to himself slowly, first aware of John’s breath, heavy and hot, against his temple.

“John,” he said. He did not think he was capable of any other syllable but that one. “John.”

He closed his eyes and let himself fall into sleep, as John’s breath became a kiss on his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shì = Yes  
> Wǒ de tiān a = Oh my God  
> dǒng ma = understand  
> qíngrén = lover  
> Měilì = beautiful  
> Gǒushǐ = shit  
> Nĭ năozi yŏu bìng = You’re fucked in the head  
> shăgua = idiot  
> cào = fuck
> 
> One chapter left!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is: the boys use their words, and both learn something new.

Sherlock woke after what felt like hours of sleep, more than he’d had since the bombing. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, at first wondering what the time was, then realized that time no longer mattered. He was in the Black.

He turned his head to see John, awake, gazing at Sherlock with his head propped up on his hand. He had a small smile on his face but his eyes were sad.

“John?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

John said nothing for a moment, the sadness deepening in his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock felt a low flutter of fear in his belly.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” John said. His smile became a brief flicker which died again. “Meetin’ you – ever since I met you I’ve been amazed every time I see you, every time you want to talk to me. And yesterday was – more than I’d ever hoped for. You said – you said love, but - I think of the life you’re used to, with the parties, and all those rich people, and I don’t know how you could-”

“John, no-”

“All I have is this _gǒushǐ _ ship, and hard work to keep her flyin’, and that’s no life for you. I don’t want to make your life - what did you say, before? - complicated. I can take you to Ariel and you can set up there, you can change your name if you’re worried about that fella-”

Sherlock put his fingers against John’s lips, halting the flow of words. “Stop. I have not been clear with you, and I’m sorry. There’s been too much in the way, but now there’s not. _Dǒng ma_? The day you came to me to help me, the day I gave you the elephant with the note, I knew. I knew you loved me, but I couldn’t say anything – my home was bugged and I knew Moriarty was listening to every word. That would have put you at risk, and I couldn’t bear that.”

“But-”

“Shush. Since the day I met you I found you utterly fascinating. I kept thinking of excuses to involve you in cases just so I could talk with you. And since the night we danced, I knew I wanted no one but you to touch me for the rest of my life.

“My life as a Companion is over. I don’t want it any more. Even if I’d never realized Moriarty was behind everything, I knew that I wouldn’t ever be truly happy again unless I was with you.

“Hear me now, John Watson. I will never tire of your company. You will always be enough for me.”

John’s eyes were bright and threatening to spill over.

“And she’s not a _gǒushǐ_ ship. She’s lovely.”

John laughed as he rubbed at his eyes. “She is, isn’t she?”

Sherlock patted the wall of the ship. “He’s sorry, Baker, he didn’t mean it.”

“No, I didn’t.” The last of the tension fell away from John, and he lay down again. “Maybe we can clear enough space in the engine room to dance.”

“I’d like that.” Sherlock traced the line of John’s jaw, growing serious again. “I must admit I’m feeling insecure as well, John. You’ve been all over the Black, and I’ve never left Persephone.”

John cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands, his fingers reaching into Sherlock’s hair. “I can’t wait to show you everything, Sherlock Holmes.”

They kissed, their lips and tongues silently expressing everything they were feeling. Sherlock kissed and licked along John’s neck, thrilling at the feel of John’s racing pulse under his mouth.

“In terms of getting bored with each other…” Sherlock murmured as he licked at John’s nipple.

“-I ain’t bored now,” John gasped.

“I can tell. But let me inform you,” Sherlock blew against the dampness and watched with satisfaction as the nipple gathered and peaked, “that I have been professionally trained, and I know a thousand ways to pleasure a man.”

“A thousand?”

“Mmmm. And I would be willing to demonstrate them all to you.”

John pulled Sherlock up and kissed him, his hand sliding down Sherlock’s flank. “Well, that’s kindly of you. And of course I’d be happy to learn each of those ways and try them on you.”

“That would be – oh – acceptable.”

“So a thousand ways, with each of us trying, that’s ‘bout five years before we’d start repeatin’.”

“Five point four seven nine years.”

“Then we’d have to pick our favourites, of course.”

“Through extensive and careful testing.”

“Of course. Very scientific.”

Sherlock grinned as he flipped John to his back, pinning him down. “I’d like to start now, if I may.”

“Be my-”

Sherlock slid down John’s body and took his prick into his mouth. John was already half hard, but stiffened immediately inside Sherlock’s mouth. John let out a string of swear words in multiple languages, and Sherlock smiled around his cock. He slid up and down, tortuously slow, enjoying the heft and bulk of John in his mouth.

“Oh, that’s shiny, you’re so amazing. God. Sherlock,” John panted.

Sherlock smirked. This was going to be good. He began to flick his tongue in a way he had learned long ago.

John gasped to the point of choking, his muscles tensing and twitching already. His legs gripped Sherlock’s chest.

“Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock,” John cried, and then he came, filling Sherlock’s mouth with salty come.

Sherlock swallowed and swallowed, gentling his mouth around John as he came down. He gave John’s softening cock one final teasing lick, then slid back up John’s body, still smirking.

“All right?” he said.

“Very much all right,” John panted. He opened his eyes and stroked Sherlock’s hair with a hand that had no strength. “I ain’t never come that fast since the very first time I was with a girl, and I was fifteen. That was amazin’.”

“That was number fifty-seven.”

“Of the list of a thousand?”

“Mmm hmm.”

John’s eyes lit up, and he pulled himself down the bed. “My turn, then. How do you do that?”

“John, it took me years to – oh _càofuckJohndeargod_ …”

**

Hours later, Sherlock was sitting on the bridge again, wrapped in a sheet and gazing out at the stars sliding past the window. He was sitting in the pilot’s seat, reclined back so he could see the stars and the tiny origami elephant he’d placed on the dash. He heard John padding up behind him, and felt his bare arms going around his shoulders.

“ _Nǐ hǎo_ ,” John said, kissing Sherlock on top of his head.

“ _Nǐ hǎo_ ,” Sherlock murmured. He pulled one of John’s hands to his mouth and kissed it.

“Had a feeling I’d find you here,” John said. He straightened, leaving his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, to look out the window. “I got this feeling this is your favourite place to be on The Baker.”

“Well. Second favourite.”

“Sleep enough?”

“Yes. I don’t need much sleep. How long until we get to Ariel?”

“’Bout a week. I took a route that’s a bit out of the way, in case we got followed.”

“And what are we doing on Ariel?”

John’s hands squeezed slightly. “You sure?” he said, low.

“I told you,” Sherlock said. “No one but you. What are we going to do on Ariel?”

Sherlock could almost hear John’s broad, happy smile behind him. “Um,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well. Starting to drum up business. Look for courier contacts. Ah – get you some clothes, since you can’t wear that purple robe any more.”

“Right.” Sherlock sat up, the sheet falling from his shoulders to puddle around his waist. “Time I start learning, then. How do you drive this thing?”

“You want to learn to pilot?”

Sherlock turned and looked at John, smiling up into his eyes. “I do.”

John smiled back, slow, and kissed his lips lightly. “Okay.” He flipped a few switches. “It’s on auto right now, and the course set in, but we’ll take it off now so you can practice. Hold the controls.”

Sherlock pulled the controls towards him, gripped the handles firmly. “Okay.”

John pressed a button, and Sherlock felt the thrum of power from the ship vibrate up through the wheel into his hands and arms.

“That’s it,” John said. “You’re steerin’ the ship now.”

Sherlock tensed his muscles against the pull of the ship. He turned the controls slightly, and felt the ship respond.

“That’s it,” John said. “That’s it.”

John stood behind him, his hands warm and firm on Sherlock’s shoulders, as Sherlock flew the ship into the Black.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> gǒushǐ = crap  
> Dǒng ma = Understand?  
> Nǐ hǎo = hello
> 
> This fic is now complete. 
> 
> Reference materials:  
> Lackey, Mercedes. “Serenity and Bobby McGee: Freedom and the Illusion of Freedom in Joss Whedon’s Firefly” Finding Serenity: Anti-heroes, Lost Shepherds and Space Hookers in Joss Whedon’s Firefly. Jane Espenson, ed.  
> Ringdal, Nils Johan. Love For Sale: A World History of Prostitution.  
> Denniston, Christine. The Meaning of Tango: The Story of the Argentinian Dance.
> 
>  
> 
> I owe a bazillion thanks to so many people: to everyone who read, and who commented, and who kept my spirits up while I wrote; to my marvellous beta team, for making this so much better; to the Fic Writers' Retreat 2017 group who inspire me every day; to the creators of each of these universes; to Mr. Standbygo for his encouragement and visuals of The Baker.
> 
> You are the blood of my heart.


End file.
